Long Live
by ParchmentRose
Summary: An assassination attempt unearths an uncomfortable truth that threatens to tear the Knights of Darion apart.
1. In Which Refec Is Far Too Good a Shot

**Author's Note: **_The Settlers: Rise of an Empire_ belongs to Ubisoft and Blue Byte, and I wince every time I see it in a bargain bin. *sobs incoherently*

Cookies and credit to Rockerduck for proofreading, nitpicks and helpful suggestions for torturing Hakim as much as possible (he's the new Marcus). Hugs to BlairBrown for being an excellent sounding board, and a high-five to Hamish McGrath for coming up with a couple of lines.

This story spoils everything. _Everything._ Even a couple of unpublished works by heatherek and Rockerduck. You have been warned.

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><p>Blade struck blade, the noise echoing through the courtyard. Marcus stepped back, disengaging, then sprung to the side as his opponent lashed out. His riposte was prompt and utterly ineffective. She rolled under the strike neatly, sprung to her feet, and charged him with all the fury of a small banshee.<p>

Sidestep, swipe, miss. Parry, thrust, parry again. The combat was dizzyingly fast. Luckily, Marcus wasn't wearing his plate armour, or he would never have been able to keep up. Metal against metal, over and over and over again, until his ears rung so he could not hear his own heavy breathing.

For a split-second he stepped back, lowering his guard, and she rushed him. Then, with a flick of the wrist, it was over, and Kestral's sword clattered to the cobbles.

"Not bad, Lackbeard," she admitted with a laugh, wiping her brow. "Sneaky. You been taking lessons from Crimmy?"

Marcus huffed, saluting his friend with a swish of the blunt training blade. "I resent that. My own invention entirely, thanks."

Kestral picked up her own sword and returned the salute, then shook his hand with a good-natured grin. "If I teach you how to shoot straight, will you show me how to do that one?"

"I _can_ shoot straight. It's the direction I have trouble with."

"Please?"

"No."

She stuck her tongue out. "Meanie."

"Oh, you must allow him some trade secrets," said another voice, and both combatants turned. Alandra was standing a few yards away, smiling as she tapped her fingers against her armoured thigh. Hakim stood next to her, his arms crossed.

"How long have you two been watching?" asked Kestral accusingly.

"A few minutes," Hakim responded. His face was, as usual, completely impassive. Kestral evidently read something in it, though, as she shook her head with mock reproof.

"Spy."

"Hypocrite," he responded calmly, but this time even Marcus could catch the twinkle in his eye. "Sergeant Anderson was looking for you. Something about the new fletcher."

Kestral rolled her eyes dramatically. "I told Refec it wasn't up to standard. C'mon, Wise Boy." She matter-of-factly tucked her arm in his and towed him in the direction of the practice targets. He did not appear to resent this behaviour in the least.

Alandra moved closer to Marcus, chuckling as she watched the other two depart. "When _are_ they going to hurry up and get married?"

"Who knows?" Marcus slipped his arm around his wife's waist. "If how long we took is any indication, they've got a while to go yet."

"I think we're atypical." She kissed his cheek, then waved in the direction of the castle. Marcus followed her gaze to see Crimson Sabatt and Thordal entering the courtyard; the latter returned the wave cheerfully, while Sabatt simply raised a hand. "And as for them …"

Marcus grinned. "_Very_ atypical."

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" Alandra rested her head on his shoulder and sighed contentedly. "But I suppose it's the very natural consequence of –"

Whatever else she had said was drowned out by a shout from the battlements. A completely incomprehensible one, to Marcus' ears – Janubian, maybe.

Then a flash of metal in the sunlight, a sudden movement across the courtyard – and Hakim crumpled, sagging against Kestral as he dropped to his knees.

Marcus sprinted forward, as did Alandra – but while she headed directly towards Hakim and Kestral, his course was for the gate tower. He glanced up: a figure was bolting along the battlements, away from the gate and toward the watchtower. The guards were giving chase.

He was at the foot in a few seconds, halfway up the stairs in a few more. Breaking from the shadows, he reached the top and barrelled along the narrow stone pathway, trying to get enough air to shout an instruction to the guard.

It stopped halfway up his throat when the fugitive toppled sideways. Marcus slammed to a stop, watching with a mixture of revulsion and, curiously, pity as the limp form crashed to the cobbles. A single arrow protruded from his chest.

"Got him, sir!" came the cry a moment later.

Marcus almost groaned, breaking back into a jog. "Refec, I wanted to question him!"

The lieutenant of the archers climbed down the side of the watchtower, facing Marcus with a sheepish expression. "Oh."

Marcus glared at him briefly, then looked over his shoulder. Hakim was up – well, kneeling; Kestral had her arm around his shoulders; and Alandra was crouched next to them, evidently examining the wound. Thordal was coming up the stairs himself, while Sabatt was hobbling to the trio. Satisfied, he turned back to the offending archer. "It's all right," he said, trying not to wonder if the man had been dead before he'd hit the ground. "Good shot."

Triumph flickered in Refec's gruff expression. "Thank you, sir."

Someone finally made it to the castle alarm bell – Marcus made a mental note to reprimand Chester for not having that properly manned – and the clanging reverberated around the courtyard. Half the barracks was already pouring into the courtyard.

"What in Vestholm just happened?" Thordal bellowed over the growing din, jogging toward his fellow Knight.

"I haven't the foggiest." Marcus shrugged, raising his voice. "Refec, double the wall guard and search the castle. Just in case he wasn't alone. Thordal, could you get all those not needed out of the courtyard? Having the whole army here doesn't help any."

"Rightho." The Viking grimaced. "Looks like we got caught napping."

"Tell me about it."

Thordal shrugged ruefully, then cupped his hands to his mouth and began bellowing orders. Satisfied, Marcus hurried back toward the gate.

…

"I'm fine," Hakim grunted.

Kestral looked at him dubiously, patting his shoulder. "That's an interesting definition of 'fine' you're using there, Wisey."

Alandra pursed her lips, gently feeling the cut. For a cut was all it appeared to be – a big, jagged, heavily bleeding one, admittedly, but a cut all the same. The dagger was lying, red and ghoulish, on the stones next to Hakim; it had clearly just glanced off his ribcage, even Kestral could see that. If she hadn't seen the man throw the blade in the first place, it would have been far worse.

"It's not serious," the blonde woman said briskly, "but we should get it bandaged and stop that bleeding."

Hakim nodded wordlessly – he looked slightly dizzy, Kestral noted, and she tightened her grip a little. "Whoever that was, he was good," she managed.

"Very," Hakim said through gritted teeth. He closed his eyes for a second, then smiled weakly at her. "Thank you."

She shrugged, smiling reassuringly back; yanking him (mostly) out of the way had been simple reflex. Throwing knives were an old trick, and had the disadvantage, as a method of offing someone, of being easy to spot. For her, anyway. "No problem."

A click of a cane on cobbles amidst the hubbub; Kestral looked up to see Sabatt standing over them. The Guerannan woman's skill at parting a crowd made her almost envious. "All right, Southerner?"

He nodded, flinching as Alandra pressed her handkerchief against the wound. "Quite all right."

Kestral rolled her eyes. "Sure you are."

"Speaking – _ah_ – relatively, of course."

Sabatt bent carefully, one hand still resting on the hilt of her stick; she picked up the dagger in her gloved hand and weighed it carefully. "A very distinctive design," she said musingly.

"Yeah, Crims, we'll work out whodunnit once Wise Boy isn't bleeding all over the courtyard."

"Very well." Sabatt glanced with irritation at the still milling soldiers, who weren't responding particularly quickly to Thordal's shouted instructions. One raised eyebrow was enough to make the nearest curious onlookers head back toward the gate, and the rest began to follow suit.

"Everything okay?" came a voice, then its owner came jogging up seconds later, panting.

Alandra glanced at Marcus over her shoulder. "Yes, I believe so." Then, to Hakim: "Do you need help to stand?"

He shook his head, then shrugged Kestral off gently and scrambled to his feet with a hiss of pain, fingers clamped around his side. She took his free arm, appointing herself honorary crutch. "Let's get you inside."

"Good idea." Marcus ran a hand through his hair absently. "What did he say, Hakim?"

"What?"

"The assassin. Before he threw the knife. He said something in Janubian, didn't he?"

Kestral couldn't see Wisey's face from her position, but she felt him stiffen. "Yes. He did."

"Well, what was it?"

"Does it matter?" Kestral asked, attempting a light-hearted chuckle, heart thudding crazily. If Princey was worried about it, it had to be incriminating. "I mean, he's dead now, it's not like he's gonna quiz us on it later."

Marcus raised his eyebrows. "Not the point, Kes – it's still useful for motive."

"Sabatt, you speak Janubian, don't you?" asked Alandra, stepping to Hakim's other side, preparing to guide him back to the keep. "What did he say?"

Crims' face was more of a mask than Hakim's ever was, expression completely blank beneath the criss-crossing scars, oblivious to the death glare Kestral was sending her way. She tapped the flat of the dagger lightly against her palm. "I am no expert, of course, but I believe a rough translation would be something along the lines of –"

"Sabatt." Hakim's voice was hoarse. "Is this necessary?"

Crimson Sabatt cleared her throat. "Along the lines of 'Long live the king'."

…

Hakim hissed sharply, shutting his eyes. He suspected Lady Alandra was being careless on purpose. "Must you pull it so tight?"

"My apologies, Your Highness," she responded blandly, before tying the bandage ends with a tug that made him wince. Interpreting Alandra de Westerlin's behavior had never been one of his strong points – she too could be inscrutable if she wished – but right now she was making her disapproval plainly obvious.

He wouldn't have told his fellow Knights if he'd been given the option. But Sabatt had seemed determined to tell the world, for some nefarious reason of her own, leaving him no other choice. Lord Marcus had not taken his stammered confession particularly well, and neither had his wife.

"Hakim. Please." He wondered at what point being Prince of Sahir al-Awan had become something to be ashamed of.

"You'll forgive me, Your Highness, if I do not wish us to be on first name terms." She stood, checking his bandage one last time, and strode to the basin in the corner. "If that can even be considered your first name, which I'm sure it cannot."

"No." He rubbed his face, then picked up his shirt and examined it absently. It would probably be best to change before his interview with the Queen – a torn and bloodstained tunic would hardly make the dignified impression required. "But I prefer it."

"Perhaps you do, Your Highness," the woman said smoothly, washing her hands. "But I would not be so presumptuous as to use it, since you clearly don't think of me as an intimate acquaintance."

He deserved this. He'd lied to her and all of the Darion Empire for four years; he had no right to expect their confidence now. He did not need it, either – the Queen would certainly continue the alliance rather than risk a diplomatic fracas, and the opinion of Lady Alandra and the other Knights of Darion was irrelevant. Yet, illogically, he still craved their trust.

"I am sorry," he murmured. "I should have informed all of you long ago."

She turned briskly. "Yes, you should." The tone of righteous indignation in her voice was uncomfortably familiar. "If you wished us to consider you a friend, of course you should have. Did you somehow think that lying to your fellow Knights would improve diplomatic relations?"

"No, I did not." He shifted his eyes to the wall, uncomfortably guilty. "I became entangled. It came to the point when I could no longer explain without causing – well, this."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said bluntly. "If you had explained things openly, even as recently as yesterday – yes, we would have been surprised and angry, but not nearly to this extent. As it is, I'm going to be hard pressed to keep Marcus from strangling you."

The image of Marcus attempting to physically assault him was more amusing than threatening, and he stifled a smile. "I do not need defending, Lady Alandra."

"Tell that to the wound in your side," said a voice. Kestral was leaning around the door; she flashed a brief but reassuring smile at him. "I've kept Lackbeard from running to Her Majesty. You can go and speak to her yourself whenever you're ready."

"Thank you." He stood stiffly, gritting his teeth as his maltreated side complained. "I will be there momentarily."

"'Kay." Kestral glanced at Alandra, worry evident, then left the infirmary again.

Hakim pulled his shirt over his head, the simple operation suddenly extremely painful. Satisfied that he was sufficiently decent for the trip to his quarters to change, he headed for the door.

…

The Queen of the Darion Empire raised both her eyebrows, watching Hakim carefully over her desk. "You tell me this now?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair – partly out of embarrassment, but mostly trying to find a position that didn't cause utter agony. "I understand that this comes rather late, yes. I apologise for that."

It was strange talking to the Queen on an equal footing – he was so used to playing the subordinate with her that a comparatively informal conversation between two rulers felt wrong. A quick glance around her simple but elegant office did nothing to reassure him, but he found himself willing to look anywhere but at the woman he had systematically betrayed.

So he was completely taken by surprise when she gave a low chuckle. "I'll admit I would probably be furious, Prince Ammar," she said, watching him with amusement as he looked up, "were it not for two extenuating circumstances. The first being that you have undoubtedly been an excellent asset to the Darion Empire, regardless of your true identity."

"And the second?" he ventured, as she paused.

Her eyes twinkled. "The second being that Lady Sabatt informed me of your true identity over a year ago."

That he had not expected. He clenched his jaw, struggling to control the sudden surge of anger. "I see."

"Don't murder her, Your Highness," the Queen requested politely, evidently finding the situation a lot funnier than he did. "It's hard to find good Knights these days."

"If you insist, Your Majesty." He cleared his throat stiffly. "I wish to return home as soon as possible."

The Queen's expression altered. "If the others have taken offence –"

"That is not the reason." Although some of them had. "I have been away quite long enough, and in light of today's events –"

"Of course." She nodded. "There is a mail carrier to Janub tomorrow, is there not?"

"Yes," he confirmed, "but to Juahar."

"You may divert it, if you wish."

"Thank you."

"It is of no consequence. It shan't significantly disrupt any of our communication networks."

He pushed himself out of his chair, forcing a faint smile. "Still, I thank you. Will you excuse me?"

"Certainly." The Queen gestured politely to the door, and he opened it – then came up short as he almost walked directly into Sabatt and Kestral, both trying and failing to look innocent.

"I think," the Queen said with a chuckle, "listening at my door might constitute treason."

"Our apologies, Your Majesty," Sabatt said without contriteness.

Hakim glared at her briefly, then switched his attention to Kestral. Retribution could wait until other matters had been resolved. "Kestral, may I speak to you privately?"

"Sure, Princey."

Sabatt, clearly unable to contain herself any longer, dissolved into helpless giggles.

…

Thanks to the search of the castle's outer walls, the library was unoccupied. Hakim sank into one of the sofas with a groan, one hand clamped to his side. He looked distinctly grey.

"How's it feel?" Kestral asked, sitting next to him.

"Sore."

"Poor Wise Boy." She squeezed his free hand. "Seriously, please don't kill Crimmy. I already thwacked her when I heard that."

One corner of his mouth shifted upward. "You didn't know she'd gone to the Queen, then?"

"Hadn't a clue."

"That's a relief." He closed his eyes and sighed. "I take it you two rascals examined the dagger?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Crims thought the design looked familiar, but she couldn't place it."

"I'm not surprised." His eyelids didn't budge. She wondered if he knew that by shutting them, he was removing his last barrier to inscrutability. Probably. "I only looked at it for a moment myself, but I am certain it bore the insignia of the Desert Raiders."

She blinked. "As in the basically-rule-Sahir-but-are-loyal-to-you Desert Raiders?"

"Precisely."

"Then why in the world –"

"– would they want to kill me?" he finished for her, eyes opening, fixed on the opposite wall. "That's exactly what I'd like to know."

"Yeah." She bit her lip, remembering what she'd overheard. "So you're going home."

"Yes."

"Forever?"

He hesitated briefly. "Yes."

Kestral's eyes suddenly stung. She wiped at them roughly, but it was no use. The tears were determined, all right. "Oh."

He shifted his gaze, looking down at her. "You're crying," he stated unnecessarily, tone alarmed.

"Well, duh!" She hugged her chest with her free arm, giving up resistance. "Of c-course I'm crying! You think I _want_ to say goodbye to you?"

"Who said anything about saying goodbye?"

She looked up into his face, shoulders trembling. "What do you m-mean?"

"Kestral." Both smile and voice were amused but tender. "You are utterly ridiculous."

"Oh, t-thanks. Explain."

"Very well. I am, in admittedly a rather clumsy fashion, asking you to marry me."

She caught her breath. She hadn't expected that.

"_Marry _you?" she repeated blankly.

"Yes," he said, one eyebrow lifted.

"Just get up and leave? _Tomorrow_?"

He looked a little uncomfortable, some of the expectant complacency in his expression fading. "That was what I had envisioned, yes."

She blinked up at him, mind whirling. It wasn't as if she hadn't considered the idea. She wouldn't be a human female if she hadn't. But never once had marriage been mentioned between them. And for the suggestion to come now, like this …

"Wait a sec. You've been forced out into the open, so you're scurrying back home without a second glance, and you expect me to just drop everything and come right back with you? Wisey, we haven't even begun to discuss the possibility of marriage!"

His fingers flinched a little against hers, his expression stiffening. "I was under the impression that that's what we're doing now."

"In a 'clumsy fashion', maybe," she quoted, resisting the temptation to roll her eyes. She didn't want him to drop to one knee and serenade her, but this was just – "You haven't even asked me properly yet, if you hadn't noticed. You're just taking it for granted that I'll want to leave with you without saying goodbye to Milo, or – or anyone! And then you call me ridiculous for not immediately understanding!"

Mortification welled up in his eyes, and for a moment she thought she'd gotten through to him – but then his hand pulled away from hers entirely. She almost choked. Of _course_ she wanted to go with him. But she wanted to be treated with some respect, not dragged along like a servile puppy. And it wasn't something she could just rush into without a second's thought. There were a hundred things that could go wrong, and they hadn't addressed a single one of them.

Now the tears were beginning to streak down her cheeks. "And if I do marry you, what then? What would all your subjects think if you just showed up at the doorstep with an ex-bandit? Look at me – what kind of princess would I be? I can't even be a decent knight – I'd be an embarrassment to you before a week was out!"

She gasped for air, longing for a contradiction, for some reassurance, or even just some indication that he cared – but none came. Instead he bolted to his feet and strode to the window, face stony.

"Some trophy," she whispered, voice wobbling. "'Cause that's really all I am, isn't it? Just a conquest, ready to be chucked in the castle with the shiny gold crown." Oh, how she wanted him to hold her close and tell her otherwise. But he did not move. She gasped shakily. "I'm not your royal regalia, Ammar, I'm a human being."

He spoke, finally, voice hard. "I take it that's a no."

Kestral's own voice was hoarse. "What do you think?"

Silent seconds stretched on, and suddenly she couldn't bear it any longer. Abruptly, she jumped to her feet and fled the room, struggling valiantly to hold back the tears.

…

Once she'd locked her door behind her, Kestral let herself break down completely, flopping onto her bed amidst wrenching sobs. Her heart was pounding, her stomach was tied in a thousand knots, and her head was beginning to ache.

Why did she have to be in love with such a pigheaded idiot? Yeah, she _was_ madly in love with him – it cost nothing to admit that. But he was treating her like an inanimate object, not like the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. What kind of marriage would that be?

Her thoughts refused to untangle themselves, and she lay there quietly, trembling, until exhaustion got the better of her.

She was woken by an imperious pound on the door. The morning sun glared though the uncovered window. Had she seriously slept since –

"Rogue, unlock this door or I'm getting the Viking to take an axe to it."

Kestral slipped obediently off the bed and opened the door, rubbing her eyes, acutely aware that her face was still tearstained. Crimson Sabatt, standing outside, took one look at her and shepherded her over to the sofa at the foot of the bed.

"I'm okay, Crimmy," Kestral lied, settling against the cushions.

Sabatt raised an eyebrow and slipped an arm around her shoulders. "Do you want me to kill the blackguard?"

"N-no. I'm guessing he's already gone."

"Yes."

Kestral smiled humourlessly. "Typical."

Sabatt sighed. "He jilted you?" she asked quietly.

"No," Kestral whispered, looking down at her hands. "The opposite."

"You – _why_?"

"Because," she blurted, "he doesn't really love me. He wants a decorative little princess that he can treat with all the respect you would a puppet."

"Did he say he doesn't love you?"

Her tone was direct. The younger woman bit her lip. "No."

A long sigh. "Kestral, he adores you."

"That doesn't mean he can take me for granted," she murmured, feeling her eyes begin to burn again.

"No, it does not," Sabatt agreed firmly, patting her shoulder. "Did you reject him outright?"

Kestral swallowed. "No. At least, I don't _think_ I did."

"In that case. Look at me." Kestral obeyed. "He's not going to stop loving you overnight, gypsy. Give him a couple of months to sort out this inconvenient assassination business, then he'll come crawling back." Sabatt's lip quirked. "Just you wait."

Kestral exhaled slowly. Maybe, just maybe, Crimmy was right. He'd come back from Janub so many times now, solely because of her, and that was before he even knew his feelings were reciprocated. Yeah, there was a tiny light at the end of the tunnel. "You think so?"

"I know so, bandit. Remember, Crimson Sabatt is never wrong."

Kestral giggled, rubbing at her cheek. "Never?"

"Never ever."


	2. In Which Hakim Reads a Picture Book

**Author's Note: **The "Janubian" is messy Arabic using a dubious transliteration system, so I apologise if it's utterly horrendous. If you're a native speaker and I've made a mistake, feel free to tell me and I'll fix it. :)

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><p>Jabir al-Razi had every right to be there.<p>

Well, perhaps not precisely, in the sheer technical sense of property law. But his wife had assured him that her brother wouldn't mind them "borrowing" Jumajir Castle for the week, and the odds of him appearing out of the blue in the middle of their stay were almost zero.

So, naturally, he had. Typical. And now he was going to have to explain and defend his presence to a cranky brother-in-law.

"What are you doing here?" he blurted. Not a good start.

Ammar's eyebrow lifted even higher. "It's my castle."

"Well, yes, I'll admit that." Jabir cleared his throat. "We came to see Doruk, and Farihah didn't think you were likely to be here."

"So you invited yourself in," Ammar said dryly, rubbing his left temple.

"Not exactly. We did ask Abdul first."

"Polite of you." The baleful scrutiny continued a moment longer, then Ammar's expression relaxed. "Kindly remove that guilty look from your face. I don't mind – glad of it, in fact."

Jabir sighed in relief, grinning. "For a moment there, I thought you might put me in the stocks."

"And risk Fari's wrath? I wouldn't dare." Ammar glanced around. "Shall we repair to somewhere a little more comfortable than the hallway?"

"Of course. Farihah and Abdul are in the study."

"Wonderful." Ammar started down the corridor, ignoring the terrified look that a passing servant was giving him. Jabir expected that the rumour of the Prince's return would be around Jumajir in about an hour. Particularly since, judging by his appearance in the south hallway, he'd entered through the kitchens.

"So what prompts this sudden materialisation?" Jabir asked cautiously, walking beside him. "Finally decided to grace us with your presence on a permanent basis?"

"Barring some dramatic occurrence, yes, I think."

His response was unexpected, both in its candour and in its content. Jabir blinked, smile widening. "At last? Farihah will be thrilled."

"Oh dear. Please defend me from the onslaught."

Jabir laughed and made no promises. It was fortunate that he did not, for he would not have been able to keep them. The second Ammar stepped over the threshold of the study, Jabir in his wake, Princess Farihah gave a squeal of joy and launched herself at her older brother with far more enthusiasm than dignity.

"Ammar! I can't believe it!" she cried, flinging her arms around him. Her victim visibly flinched, hissing in pain, and she released him abruptly, eyes widening in concern. "Did I hurt you?"

"Not to worry. Just a slight wound – almost healed."

Jabir glanced past the siblings to the room's interior. The study was officially the domain of the ruler, but even during Prince Murtadi's lifetime the small chamber had functioned as an informal sitting room. As a result, the furnishings were significantly more modern than the rest of the ancient castle's. Ammar's mother had insisted on redecorating when they were all boys, and Jabir still remembered spying on the workmen from the doorway – he, Doruk and Ammar intently watching them carve intricate designs in the stone windowframe. It had been a great disappointment to the boys when the workmen had departed and left carpets, bookshelves and cushioned chairs in their stead, but there was no denying that the room was now far more comfortable.

Abdul Rasheed, regent of Sahir al-Awan, was rising unsteadily from his chair beside the window. His delight at seeing Ammar was more subdued than Farihah's, but still very noticeable. It was unlikely that the elderly man was going to get a word in edgewise, however.

"You were wounded?" Farihah gasped, clasping her brother's hands. "You poor thing! Oh, but it's wonderful to see you! How long has it been – three years? It must be, at least, for you have not seen little Temel, and –"

Jabir interjected with amusement. "_Zawja_, let the poor man sit down."

"Oh! Of course." Refusing to let go, she led her brother to the most cushioned of the chairs and gently pushed him into place. "You look exhausted."

His wife was right, Jabir noted as he sat himself. Ammar's face was drawn and haggard, and he was being extremely taciturn, even for him. While there could not be a greater contrast between the two siblings, the elder generally at least responded to his sister's effusive attentions with gentle sarcasm; now, he was silent. Something greater was wrong than sheer tiredness, that was certain.

"Would you like some tea?" Farihah continued, hurrying over to the side table without waiting for an answer and beginning to pour a cup. "We have only just drunk ours, so it's still fresh."

"Thank you." Ammar cracked a brief smile, turning to Abdul. "My apologies for the unannounced arrival."

Abdul waved a hand dismissively. "Unnecessary, Your Highness."

"Still. Is all progressing well?"

"As well as can be expected, Your Highness. Certainly no emergencies."

"Good." He seemed to hesitate. "The Raiders have not been giving trouble?"

"The Desert Raiders? Of course not." Abdul glanced at Jabir in confusion, and he echoed the look. "Why should they?"

Ammar shrugged slightly. "I have had reason to believe they might, that is all."

"Well, I certainly hope not," Farihah said with decision, handing Ammar his cup. "It would be very unpleasant if they did."

"Very," Ammar said grimly, glancing at Jabir, and the latter returned the look. Clearly, there was more to the Prince's sudden return than simple impulse, but explanations could wait until Ammar was ready to give them. Or until he had an opportunity to do so, for Farihah had begun excitedly relating all the news from both Sahir al-Awan and their home back in Juahar, and he suspected it would be some time before the litany was over.

…

Hakim leaned back in his seat, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Jumajir Castle had not changed, and though a few years earlier he would not have believed such a sentiment possible, he was grateful for it. The worn tapestries, chipped orange stonework and faded furniture had annoyed him once, but now they almost seemed welcoming. Reassuring, certainly. Another boon was the fact that his family had already been in the study; while it was significantly less traditional than the formal reception room, right now he much preferred a comfortable armchair to a cushion on the floor. It would take him a while to get used to Janub again, he thought absently. Hopefully not too long.

As for Farihah, she was cheerfully rattling off the happenings of the past few months, while Abdul was looking increasingly impatient. Jabir, however, simply looked amused by his wife's talkativeness. They seemed a happy couple, judging by appearances, and Hakim felt an odd little pang.

"And we were so sure Doruk would get married," continued his sister, pouting a little, "for I thought he liked Layali very much, but then she went away to Husran, and she's not likely to return."

"_You_ were sure," Jabir said, chuckling. "I never thought so, and he certainly doesn't seem to be repining."

"How is Doruk?" Hakim enquired. He hadn't laid eyes on Jabir's elder brother since before the war with Raudrlin.

"Well enough," Jabir returned.

"He's been very helpful managing al-Awan," Abdul explained, lacing his fingers together. "If it hadn't been for his advice and the added supplies from his estates, we would have had half a dozen famines last summer."

The implication was plain, though not malicious. Ruling a desert nation was a stressful responsibility, and the elderly man simply hadn't been able to bear it alone. Not that he should have had to bear it at all.

Hakim forced down his guilt and took a sip of his tea. It tasted strange, but pleasant; sweeter than he'd become used to over the past few months, certainly. "I see."

Farihah smiled. "We hadn't seen him since we moved to Juahar, so we came here to show him the children. He invited us to stay with him, but we didn't want to –"

"Impose?" said a wry, familiar voice from the doorway. "Nonsense, Farihah. I would have been happy to have you, but clearly you preferred to bother His Highness instead."

Hakim looked up, and chuckled despite himself. Doruk al-Razi looked a little older, a little more lined, but the sardonic grin was exactly the same. "It's hardly a bother," he said as he pushed himself to his feet. "Good afternoon."

Doruk smirked and accepted the proffered handshake. "Good afternoon, Your Highness. It's been far too long."

"It has indeed."

"How in the world did you get past Badr?" asked Jabir curiously, laughing. So the elderly steward was still here – good.

"I told I'd announce myself. He seems to have no inkling of the presence of certain persons, so he did not object."

"Oh!" Farihah cried, springing to her feet. "I'd better warn him. And see about having your room organised, Ammar. You'll want to wash before dinner, I'm sure."

Hakim nodded, trying not to laugh at this new image of his baby sister as a responsible housekeeper. "Thank you."

She dashed out, and the four men looked at each other grimly.

"All right." Jabir was the first to speak. "What's all this about the Raiders?"

Hakim sat, gesturing to Doruk to do likewise. For a moment, he was unsure of the wisdom of confiding in them. But then, these three men were the closest friends he had left, and this was one situation that it would be downright foolish of him to face alone.

He took a deep breath, schooling his expression. "An attempt was made on my life the day before I left Vestholm."

"You're joking." Jabir leaned forward, white-faced.

"I wish I were."

"And you think the Desert Raiders are responsible?" Doruk asked, frowning.

"I have no absolute proof, admittedly." Hakim folded his arms. "But the throwing dagger used certainly bore their insignia."

"But why in the world would they want to kill you?" Abdul asked, looking rather pale. "You have the regalia, so surely they would be loyal to you."

"One would think so." Doruk's frown deepened. "But the truth is rarely that simple with them."

True enough, Hakim thought. The organisation had existed for hundreds of years, quietly ruling Sahir al-Awan behind the back of the official monarchy. They were far too widespread and powerful for him to do anything about them, but until now that had not seemed necessary – they were unquestioningly loyal to the possessor of Janub's ancient regalia, and since he and Kestral had recovered them during the war, that was him. But one could never predict the actions of a group like them, particularly considering some of their historical exploits.

Jabir broke the silence. "You'll have to be extremely careful. If anything, you've just run straight into the lions' den by coming here."

"I know," he admitted. "But I couldn't risk staying, in case they were making a move here at the same time."

Abdul cleared his throat. "I could order a greater guard deployment – there are enough reserves here to make it possible." He paused. "Unless you wish to give the instructions yourself, of course, Your Highness."

The unspoken question was obvious; despite already having answered it to himself and several others, Hakim still hesitated before replying. "I'll talk to the captain of the guard in a few moments."

Abdul's relief was clearly visible. Doruk half-smiled. "So this isn't another secretive visit, Prince Ammar?"

"No." It was all Hakim could do not to sigh. "I have returned for good."

…

"Hello, little one. Ready to meet your uncle?"

Temel blinked up at his mother with large dark eyes, and for a split-second Farihah was _certain_ that he'd raised his eyebrow. "Don't give me that," she said with as much sterness as she could muster. "I'm sure you'll like him."

Temel's only response was to shove his thumb in his mouth.

"Mother."

Farihah glanced over her shoulder, to where Aminah was building herself a seat out of embroidered cushions. "Yes, _lateefa_?"

"Are you _sure_ we'll like him?" the three year old asked with complete seriousness. It was all her mother could do not to start giggling.

"Certain, sweetheart. I like him, don't I?"

That logic was apparently sufficient to satisfy her elder daughter, for Aminah nodded slowly, and Farihah turned back to Temel's cot. Her one year old son was watching her intently, quietly sucking his thumb. She reached out and gently removed his hand from his mouth, and he gave her a distinctly affronted look.

"But will _he_ like _us_?" Aminah enquired cautiously.

"Of course he will," came Jabir's cheerful voice from the doorway. "He'll love you."

Farihah stood. Aminah's worried expression had transformed to a shy grin, and it broadened as her father entered the makeshift nursery and scooped her up into his arms.

"But what if he doesn't?" she protested halfheartedly.

"Then you can just be so adorable that he can't help it." Farihah planted a kiss on her daughter's cheek, smiling at Jabir knowingly. "But I'm sure he'll like you right away."

Thus reassured, Aminah snuggled against her father's shoulder, and he laughed. "Come on, 'Minah, I need to talk to your mother. Keep Temel happy for a minute or two, okay?"

"Okay," the small girl responded cheerfully, and he lowered her to the ground and ushered Farihah into the hallway.

"What is it?" she asked, taking in the concerned look in his eyes.

Jabir sighed. "I want you and the children to stay inside the castle for the next week or so."

Farihah felt her eyes widen. "Of course, if you wish it – but why?"

"Someone tried to murder your brother in Vestholm," he whispered, placing a finger on her lips as she gasped. "Don't tell him I said anything – he didn't want to frighten you. But Temel is his closest male relative, and if someone wants to kill Ammar –"

"Then they might want to hurt his heir as well," she finished, heart hammering. "Oh, you don't think so?"

"I sincerely hope not." He folded her into a tight hug. "But it's best to be careful."

She couldn't agree more.

…

Doruk had departed shortly after Jabir had gone in search of Farihah, making some excuse about a grain delivery. The moment he'd left, Abdul and Hakim had repaired to the former's office. The sheer quantity of matters he needed to be reacquainted with was making Hakim dizzy. His administrative duties as a Knight of Darion were nothing to this.

"I think that's most of the things that need urgent attention, in brief," Abdul finished, folding a sheet of parchment with his typical precise care. "Apart from a few pieces of official correspondence, but I believe they can wait." He nodded over Hakim's shoulder, towards the entrance, and the latter turned in his seat.

"Now, Ammar," said Farihah firmly, standing in the doorframe, "are you going to come and meet your niece and nephew, or are you going to sit and talk over dull business reports all afternoon?"

He leaned back in his chair, lifting both brows. "Quite a conflict of duty."

"Indeed," said Abdul, grinning. "I can clear up here, Your Highness."

Hakim needed no further urging. "Thank you," he murmured, standing and following Farihah through the doorway. She smiled broadly.

"Aminah was but a baby when you last saw her, I think. You'll adore her – she's terrified you won't, the silly little dear, but I know you will." She was practically bubbling over as they walked, her joy in seeing him again written all over her face, and, despite himself, Hakim began to relax. He was home.

It was fortunate Farihah and Jabir were here, really. He'd resented their presence for about ten seconds, but then good sense had prevailed: without Fari's exuberance and her husband's matter-of-fact conversation, he'd have stayed in the withdrawn, miserable state he'd been in for the entire journey here.

The idea of Kestral's not wanting to marry him had never entered his head. From the moment that they'd confessed their feelings for one another, he had considered matrimony inevitable. Every plan he'd formed had been based on it – every hope and dream had involved her here with him. At first he'd felt nothing but shock; then, gradually, in seeped the acute pain of betrayal.

He was not angry at her – he missed her far too much for that. But he was hurt, badly, and the temptation to hide himself away and nurse both his literal and metaphorical wounds was almost too strong to resist. Fortunately for his mental state, the odds of his family permitting it were nill.

As if to prove the point, Farihah's voice broke into his thoughts. "And Temel – the darling is so much like you, it's almost frightening. He could easily pass for your son, I'm sure."

"Hopefully he doesn't inherit the beak."

Farihah wrinkled her own perfectly formed nose. "I've never been able to understand why you and Ghalib were always so cross about your noses. They look very nice to me."

"It's adequate as an olfactory organ, but otherwise –" He shrugged, half-smiling ruefully, and she gave a little exasperated sigh.

"I'll never understand men," she announced to the hallway at large. "You laugh at us for being vain, and then are incredibly self-centred yourselves. It's quite ridic – oh, here we are!" She stopped at a door that Hakim recognised as being one of the spare bedrooms. "Our little temporary nursery. Come in!"

He obeyed, chuckling, and quickly took stock of the surroundings. The low bed that used to occupy much of the room had been replaced by a smaller trundle bed and a crib, neither of which he recognised from his own childhood. On the floor, surrounded by wooden blocks, was a boy in mid-toddlerhood, with scruffy black hair and large dark eyes; his sister, face framed by deep brown curls, was perched on a pile of cushions, holding an enormous tome in her lap. Both looked up at their entrance, as apprehensive as they were excited.

"Darlings," said Farihah proudly, "this is your uncle. Ammar, here are Aminah –" she gestured unnecessarily – "and Temel."

"Hello." Hakim took another step into the room, uncertain of quite what one was supposed to say to children. Then he caught sight of the pictures in Aminah's book. "May I see?" he asked, gesturing.

Aminah hesitated, her forehead furrowing, then, as he crouched next to her, pushed the volume a few inches in his direction. He moved so as to see the drawing properly: a snowscape. A very familiar looking one, as a matter of fact.

"Kyrkasund," he said, nodding. "Southern coast of Narlind."

Her face lit up. "You know it?" Her voice was more lower-pitched than he'd expected. A mature little miss, it seemed.

"Yes, quite well." Rather better than he would like, anyway.

"What's it like?" Her curiosity about the alien land pictured before her was conquering her shyness quite impressively. Out of the corner of his eye, Hakim caught sight of Farihah assisting Temel in stacking his blocks, and figured he could devote his attentions exclusively for a few moments.

"Cold." He sat down properly on the floor next to her. "In winter, it's so cold that all the rivers freeze and you can walk across them as if it's dry land."

Aminah's eyes nearly popped out of her head. "_Really_?"

"Really."

"Did you walk on the water?"

Memories assaulted him against his will. Air so icy he could barely breathe; his horses' hooves skidding on the smooth surface; Kestral, smiling infectiously, vapour drifting from her mouth as she laughed. "I rode on it."

The awe in her expression almost called up a fit of mirth, and he suppressed it with an effort. Then she turned the page, showing him another painting – this time, of Basa – and he was once again called upon to explain the geography. Within five minutes, they'd shifted so she was leaning against him as he held the book; within ten, he felt a slight nudge against his leg, and looked down to see Temel sitting next to them. Evidently, the boy didn't want to be left out of any available cuddles. Hakim smiled and put an arm out, and Temel happily crawled into his lap, snuggling into his chest.

He met Farihah's eyes, and she laughed silently, before slipping through the door. He was on his own, but that didn't alarm him in the slightest. Either Fari's children were unusually docile, or he'd discovered an unrealised talent. Most likely the former.

"What about this one?" Aminah asked, carefully turning over a leaf. He looked down, and his heart came dangerously close to stopping. Vestholm. Probably done about ten years earlier.

"That's in Westerlin," he answered, fighting to keep his voice even. "It's called Vestholm. I've been living there for the past few years."

She twisted and looked up at him. "Is it nice?"

"Yes, it's nice."

A martial, almost accusing look appeared on her face. "You don't sound very sure about that," was the prim response.

Wonderful. Caught in a falsehood by a four year old. He cleared his throat. "It is nice, Aminah. But some unpleasant things happened to me there recently, and now, well –"

"You don't like it any more," she surmised triumphantly and inaccurately.

"Perhaps not."

"Well, I won't go there, then," Aminah said with decision. "If you don't like it, it's probably nasty."

A change of subject was in order. Hakim gently turned the page. "There. I'm sure you know where that is."

"It's Juahar," she said knowledgeably. "I live there."

"I know."

"Except that's wrong." She pointed to the white stone wall in the painting. "There's a hole there."

Hakim nodded, remembering all too well exactly how the breach in Juahar's wall had been created. He'd almost been crushed by the falling debris. "Well spotted. I would have thought it would have been repaired by now."

Aminah gave a little shrug, then turned the page again.

Suddenly, Hakim was on high alert. He'd never been able to explain exactly what it was that triggered his defence reflexes – sheer gut instinct, usually. Right now, he knew something was wrong. And, moreover, what.

Someone else was in the room.

His niece must have felt him tense, for she blinked at him, frowning. "Uncle?"

Hakim slowly dislodged Temel from his position on his lap and placed him on the ground. "Both of you, go to the door," he whispered. "Now."

Aminah's mouth opened, but now was not the time to argue. He placed a finger on her lips, closed the book and placed it aside, then stood, listening.

Yes. Someone was definitely here. But before he had a chance to detect exactly where, that someone decided he couldn't wait any longer.

A quick footstep behind him. He began to turn, and a hand slammed into his shoulder. Had he not moved, he would have been caught directly in the back.

Aminah shrieked. Hakim completed the turn with barely a hesitation. His fist connected with the intruders' ear. The man fell and rolled, then, as Hakim rushed for him, began a sprint for the window.

Hakim was faster. He dived, and both of them hit the floor with a graceless thud.

"Aminah, get help!" he bellowed, but didn't have time to check if she could obey. The robed figure was stronger than he'd expected, and it was all he could do to pin his right arm. A firm twist did the trick, and the man gasped – but then, as Hakim moved to pin the left arm, that limb slashed out, dagger in hand.

He sprung backwards and away, and his opponent seized the opportunity. But not to attack him.

Instead, he dashed back to the centre of the room, where Temel was hiding behind the cushions, and grabbed the boy. Hakim stepped forward instinctively, but the sight of his nephew with a knife to his side brought him up short.

"That's quite enough," the intruder panted. "I underestimated you, Prince Ammar. Fear not, it won't happen again."

Temel whimpered, looking at his uncle with an expression of silent terror

"Let the boy go," Hakim said, mouth dry.

"And have you attack me again? Certainly not." The man smirked, then nodded toward Aminah, who was frantically trying to reach the doorknob. Her cries would probably reach Husran. "Make her be quiet, please. And don't move a single step."

Hakim swallowed. "Hush, Aminah," he murmured as soothingly as he could manage under the circumstances. "Be still. It's all right."

She gave a single terrified sob and crawled a little away from the door. But her screams would have done their work already. Jabir and the guards would be here any minute.

"Thank you." The man shifted a little, and Hakim glanced down at his hands.

His dagger was precisely identical to the one he'd seen in Vestholm.

The visitor saw where the prince's gaze was directed, and gave a low chuckle. "Very observant. My name is Savas, and I am here as a spokesman of the Desert Raiders. I'd shake your hand, but – well."

Hakim was not amused. "I was aware the Raiders were happy to murder those they profess loyalty to, but I had never yet heard of –"

"Murder?" Savas' eyebrows flew up. "To what exactly are you referring?"

"Don't play innocent," Hakim snapped. "Your man in Vestholm failed, so you've come to finish the job. Unsurprising, I suppose."

"We have no agents in Vestholm, Your Highness."

That was not what Hakim had been expecting to hear. "But –"

"We never have," Savas interrupted. "I would know. And I am not here to kill you, Your Highness; in fact, I did not intend to be noticed. I came merely to confirm whether or not the rumours of your arrival were true. But since the opportunity has presented itself, will you allow me to say a few words?"

Every moment he could delay him would be a chance for reinforcements to get here. "I don't think I have much choice in the matter," he responded evenly.

"Quite correct." Savas paused. "We had rather high hopes of you when you succeeded your brother, Prince Ammar – particularly after you and your friends recovered the regalia."

Hakim blinked. Had _everyone_ known who he was? "Thank you."

"Not so hasty. Recently, you've been disappointing." Savas' expression was carefully neutral. "Fighting for the Darion Empire, while noble, is not what one expects of a ruler of al-Awan."

Hakim lowered his brows, but remained silent. The last thing he needed to do right now was probe his conscience.

"We are willing to overlook it, however," Savas continued. "If you prove that you take your responsibilities seriously, naturally."

The sound of running on the flagstones. Not far off. "I don't think you're in a position to make threats."

"Oh, I'm not. That I freely admit." Savas lifted a single shoulder. "But the Raiders as a whole are. We will be loyal, yes, on that you have my word as a Janubian. But _only_ if you live up to the duties of a ruler."

Hakim's heart was drumming against his ribcage. Just a few more seconds. "Such as?"

"The usual. Show the people your presence, deal with economic woes, keep the army happy, marry and produce heirs, etcetera." Savas nodded at the door. "Now, if you're done trying to stall me, I think I'll depart. Thank you for your charming hospitality."

Then everything happened very quickly. Savas released Temel. The door slammed open. Hakim dashed forward. The room flooded with guardsmen. Over the commotion, Hakim dimly heard Jabir bellowing orders, but his one focus was to get to the open window before the Raider did.

But he was a second too late. Savas vaulted over the ledge and into air, and when his pursuer looked out a moment later, there was nothing there but the castle wall and bare orange cliff.

"Ammar, are you all right?" Jabir's voice.

He nodded, then turned. His brother-in-law was kneeling in the centre of the room, hugging both children to his chest, face white. "Perfectly. Are –" He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Aminah's face was buried in her father's robe as she convulsed with sobs. Temel was silent, eyes clenched shut, trembling.

His sister's precious children were frightened out of their wits, and he had brought it upon them. Never mind that they had not been hurt. They easily could have been: Savas had denied any knowledge of the assassination attempt, but it was possible, even probable, that another branch of the organisation was not nearly as non-violent in their objections to his avoidance of responsibility.

This could not be permitted to happen again.


	3. In Which Crimson Sabatt Eats Toast

_One month later_

"I think there must be something wrong with this mirror."

Marcus strapped his shoulder guard to his arm, glancing up. "Why do you say that?"

Alandra pouted briefly. "Better to say that than admit that I've gained a couple of pounds." She placed her hands on her hips and examined her waistline in the floor-length mirror. "Peace is making me soft."

"I think you look perfect," Marcus said loyally.

She laughed, picked up her breastplate, and began to strap it on over the thick cotton shirt. "Thank you, darling, but I think you're just a tiny bit biased."

"That's my duty as a devoted hus – oww!" He grimaced, gently tugging a caught strand of hair from between the plates on his shoulder. "Not again. At this rate, I'll be bald before I'm thirty."

"You could always take Kestral's suggestion," she teased, putting on her cape.

"A haircut? It's almost tempting. The problem is that the suggestion was offered by _Kes_."

"She does say useful things occasionally, you know." Alandra stepped forward and kissed him lightly. "I need to collect my letters. Meet you at breakfast?"

"Sure. I'll even save you some."

"You better." She grinned, eyes twinkling, then turned and left the room. A couple of seconds later, Marcus realised he was still staring at the door.

He shook himself, chuckling ruefully. They'd been married for at least five months now, and he still wasn't used to it. Not that it was at all bad.

Within another minute, he was ready for the day, and headed straight for the kitchen. While Castle Vestholm technically possessed a dining room, in reality none of the Knights could ever be bothered to use it. The Queen dined in her own quarters most of the time; without her presence, formality seemed rather a bore. The kitchen staff didn't mind the Knights of Darion invading their domain, provided they didn't filch food from the pantry, and so the large wooden table in the centre of the enormous kitchen was where Darion's rulers congregated.

Marcus wasn't the first to arrive that morning. Elias and Thordal were already seated, both digging in to their respective bowls of porridge. Missus Perkins, the head cook, looked up and shot Marcus a smile. "Morning, Your Lordship."

"Hello." He accepted a bowl of porridge from her and slid onto the bench next to Thordal. "How come you two are up so early?"

Elias shrugged. "I've got a meeting with some merchants in North Vestholm. I thought I'd take the opportunity to get a bit of work done beforehand."

"Take the opportunity for extra breakfast, more like." Thordal laughed heartily. "I'm conducting an inspection at the harbour, lad. What's your excuse?"

"Lani and I are going to get the barracks manifests done after breakfast, then I'm managing a training session." He made a face. "Do you know how _mundane_ all this sounds?"

"Mundane's good," Elias said, grimacing. "For a start, it's safe."

"Not safe for my sanity. I'm going stir-crazy." Marcus took a mouthful of his porridge. Missus Perkins was clearly trying to ration his sugar intake again. He reached for the bowl and sprinkled more on.

"Want us to fake your capture by bandits again?"

Marcus swallowed. "Maybe not quite on that scale. But we could always hold a war game, or exercise, or something. Keep the troops on their toes."

"I don't think that's a problem at the moment," Thordal said grimly. "Have you spoken to Chester this week?"

"Yeah. He looked pretty edgy, actually."

"Edgy doesn't even cover it. Since last month –" The Viking rubbed his face with a groan. "I think the worst of it is that no one knows what was going on."

"Didn't help that _His __Highness_ didn't tell us anything," Marcus mumbled. He still hadn't forgiven Hakim for four years of lies, and wasn't sure if he could. "Or at least not anything that could have solved the mystery."

A throat cleared in the doorway. "_His Highness_ probably hadn't an inkling himself." Crimson Sabatt stepped over to the table, cane clicking against the flagstones, and sat gracefully on the other side of Thordal.

Marcus wondered briefly if it was worth arguing with her, and decided that his porridge was more important. Missus Perkins served Sabatt her toast, and for a few moments nothing was heard but the clank of pots and pans and the scrape of spoons against bowls.

"Viking." Sabatt buttered her bread neatly. "Do you know of any unplowed fields away from the livestock areas?"

Thordal blinked. "I suppose there are some. Not really my department. Why?"

She shrugged demurely, looking so innocent Marcus was _convinced_ she was up to something. "No reason."

"Oh dear." Elias chuckled. "We're all doomed."

Sabatt smirked wordlessly and took a bite of toast.

"Oh, come on," Marcus complained good-naturedly. "You can't just leave us hanging like that."

Sabatt chewed, maddeningly slowly. Thordal guffawed. "Looks like she can. Missus Perkins, you got any porridge left?"

That lady, standing by the iron stove, brushed off her apron and began to pour tea into cups. "Yes, but not for you."

Thordal shook his head with affected mournfulness. "No respect these days."

"Tell me about it." Marcus accepted a full teacup from the cook with a nod. "Yesterday afternoon, some kid – can't have been more than about twelve – attempted to challenge me to a duel."

Thordal chuckled. "Brave lad."

"Mmm. Apparently, I've mortally insulted his family by marrying Alandra instead of his sister. Go figure."

"What did you do?" Elias asked curiously, sipping from his teacup.

"I told him that if his sister wanted to marry me, she should have done something about it five years ago. Apparently, that was impractical."

"Why?"

"Because she's currently fourteen." Marcus scooped up another spoonful, trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face. "I suggested you as an alternative, Thordal. He wasn't impressed."

The Viking roared with laughter. Sabatt looked vaguely insulted. "And why ever not?"

"Because teenage girls prefer knights in shining armour to bearded Narlindir, Sabatt."

"I despair for the future of the species." She took another dainty bite of toast.

At that moment, Alandra came in the door, hands filled with envelopes. "Good morning."

"Paperwork at the breakfast table, lass?" Thordal inquired. "That's a new low."

Marcus elbowed him. Alandra raised a blonde eyebrow, sitting down across from her husband. "Today's a busy day. I need a volunteer to supervise the cavalry exercises this afternoon."

Marcus grimaced. That had always been Hakim's job, and they'd been foisting it off on one another for the past month. "I don't think Kes has got anything to do this afternoon, has she?"

"Nothing scheduled," Sabatt confirmed. "She and I will handle it."

"You're not going to check with her first?" Alandra asked, opening an envelope.

"She shall do my bidding or suffer for it." Sabatt pressed her lips together. "She also desperately needs to get out of the castle."

Marcus nodded grimly, checking that Missus Perkins was down the far end of the kitchen. The servants knew the whole, of course, but that didn't mean they had to blab out all the gossip in front of them. "How is she?"

"In situations such as these, I'm afraid it gets worse before it gets better." Sabatt cleared her throat. "But she's coping very well, on the whole."

Alandra nodded. "Better than I would in her situation, I think." She placed aside her first letter, and picked up a second envelope – then visibly flinched as she took in the direction.

"Something wrong?" Marcus asked.

Alandra shook her head slightly, opening the envelope. "Not exactly. It's from Jumajir."

The Knights froze.

"From – ?" There was no real necessity for Sabatt to say his name.

She scanned the letter. "Not directly. It's an official state correspondence – _what?_"

Something in her tone made Marcus' blood run cold. "Lani, what is it?"

Alandra's face was rapidly going white. She met Marcus' eyes for a split-second, then straightened in her chair. "It's a wedding announcement."

"What – _Hakim's _wedding?" Thordal blurted.

"Yes."

"But – to whom?" Elias said blankly.

Alandra took a deep breath and placed the missive on the table before her, smoothing it out. "His Noble and Wise Majesty Prince Ammar al-Basir ibn Murtadi ibn Hakim al-Sahir," she read out, "announces his impending marriage to Her Most Honoured Majesty Saraya, Princess of Hidun."

For a few seconds, the group was silent. Marcus was honestly lost for words. Saraya? While he didn't _dislike_ her, the idea of anyone, let alone Hakim, wanting to _marry_ the daffy princess was beyond his comprehension. Still, all kinds to make a world, but …

And, way more importantly, what about Kestral?

"You have got to be kidding me," Thordal mumbled.

"If only. And that's not the worst of it." Alandra checked the letter again. "They want to borrow Vestholm Cathedral."

"What? Why?" Marcus raised his eyebrows. "Hasn't Jumajir got one of its own?"

"It does," said Sabatt stiffly, no expression on her face whatsoever.

"Then why –"

"Vestholm's diplomatically neutral." Alandra shrugged. "Presumably they wanted to compromise rather than give either Hidun or al-Awan the honour."

Sabatt nodded. "Janub and Hidun have never been on terribly good terms. Asking a third party to host the wedding is a logical way of avoiding tensions, I admit. If an extremely callous one."

Marcus looked back to Alandra. "So what are we going to do?"

"Well." Alandra sighed. "We can't very well say no. Both countries are Westerlin's allies, and we've no sensible reason to cause offence. I'll talk to Her Majesty, of course, but I'm almost certain she will agree."

"So," Elias said grimly. "We're hosting a wedding."

Marcus exhaled. "Who's going to tell Kes?"

"'Sokay, Lackbeard." Kestral's voice. She was standing in the doorway, arms hugged against her chest. "I heard."

...

Try though she did, Crimson Sabatt couldn't find Kestral until mid-morning. Directly after her appearance in the kitchen, she turned and ran off, and by the time any of them moved to follow her she was nowhere to be seen. After half an hour, the other Knights were forced to go back to their duties, and Sabatt continued the search alone.

She determined fairly promptly that Kestral wasn't in the castle. One of the stableboys had seen her leave the courtyard and start down towards the town. Sabatt's search of the marketplace and its environs proved to be equally fruitless, until, just as she was about to give up, she caught sight of a figure on the roof of the west gate.

_Oh. Of course. _Mentally slapping herself, Sabatt marched over to the gate tower. She had no difficulty in getting access; however, climbing from the battlements to the roof was a different story. While she was still physically capable of ascending the ladder, it was a distinctly uncomfortable experience. Her right leg ached, her shoulders strained, and she was very relieved to finally be able to pull herself onto the clay tiles.

Kestral sat about ten feet away, hugging her knees to her chest. As Sabatt climbed over the rim, she half-smiled, rubbing at her eyes with one hand. "Hi."

The older woman clambered carefully across the roof and sat next to her. "Are you all right?" she asked softly.

"Yep, sure. I'm an emotional wreck, but that'll pass." Kestral blew out a long sigh. The remains of tears showed on her cheeks. "At least this way I'm not gonna torture myself hoping."

Sabatt set her jaw. If the Southerner had been there at that moment, she would undoubtedly have punched him in the face. But the mudheaded fool was in Janub, and she was forced to content herself with mental recriminations and a hope that she might spontaneously develop telepathy. "You're just giving up?" she asked quietly.

Kestral grimaced. "Well, what else am I supposed to do? Race over there and throw myself at his feet? If he doesn't want me, he doesn't want me. End of story. I can't say I'm gonna be able to face him comfortably, but … well, I'll survive."

Sabatt looked out absently at the view. She hadn't been up here in quite some time. A few grain fields and pastures dotted the land near the walls, but beyond them a green blur of forests and mountains flowed forever, merging into the blue horizon. Compared to the turmoil within the castle, it was incongruously peaceful.

She set her jaw. Kestral might be ready to accept this, but she wasn't. The girl from Gallos didn't deserve this kind of pain. She didn't deserve to be saddled with the Southerner, either, but then that was just Sabatt's personal opinion. She'd fix this – or, if Ammar proved obstinate, punish him severely. There was no way she was letting anyone get away with hurting the gypsy, let alone a –

"Janubian mudhead," she said aloud, and Kestral giggled weakly.

"Yeah," she said, pushing her hair from her face and tucking it behind her ears. "Stupid stone-faced Princey. He _deserves_ Saraya."

"You mean Her Most Honoured Idiocy Saraya," Sabatt corrected, smirking.

"Yep, that's the one. I'm sure she'll be lovely company. They can have lots of fascinating discussions about the colour of her dresses and whether or not it's about to rain." Kestral crossed her arms and placed them over her knees, chuckling ruefully. "Domestic bliss."

"If she's even willing to marry him when she finds out the truth," Sabatt pointed out. "We don't know if she has any idea that Ammar and Hakim are one and the same."

"Knowing him, she's probably got no clue. Didn't even tell me until he absolutely had to." Her expression clouded, then she grinned impishly. "Did you know that he can't even swim?"

Sabatt blinked. She hadn't known that. "Really?"

"Really. I was the one who ended up rescuing that stupid orb. Twice – had to grab it _again_ after _he_ lost it. And now I bet he's got the nerve to go around claiming he's this great hero who's going to stick his big nose in everybody's business and unite Janub before teatime."

"Provided he doesn't meet with the dire threat of a stream, of course."

Kestral spluttered. "Oh, of course. And Saraya won't even have a _clue_ where he's gone, because he won't have bothered to say goodbye. But then, she probably won't even notice, because it's not like he even _says_ anything when he's around. It's like living with a statue." She took a deep breath, tossing her head. "I'm better off without him."

Sabatt watched her closely. She didn't believe for a second that she was over him, but at least the gypsy was still capable of putting on a smile. Whatever happened, Kestral would bounce back, and Sabatt would be there to help. Especially if being there to help meant giving Ammar a well-deserved reprimand.

She reached over and patted Kestral's back. "Quite right."


	4. In Which Kestral Kicks a Small Child

The next four weeks passed swiftly for the Knights of Darion. Although this was not a large affair compared to some royal weddings Alandra had read of, the preparations were still mindboggling – and, naturally, Alandra seemed to bear the brunt of them. The other Knights assisted as much as they could, but they all had their own responsibilities to attend to, and the commander of the Knights saw it as her duty to fulfil the necessary tasks without complaint. She flattered herself that she was coping reasonably well, on the whole: by the morning the Janubian guests were due to arrive, she'd successfully arranged all the details for the ceremony (Vestholm Cathedral, obviously, though finding translators for those guests who did not speak Westerlin was mildly problematic), the reception (in the marketplace, or in the castle's great hall, if autumn decided to rear its head a few weeks early), accommodations (bride, groom and immediate associates at the castle, others in the homes of Vestholm's nobility – that had certainly taken negotiation), meals, travel logistics, and almost anything that could be thought of. She was also completely and utterly drained.

She hurried across the main hall, dodging a maid performing last minute dusting on the banisters. For once, she was wearing a dress; it was significantly more comfortable than all that armour, for a start, but the main reason was formality. She'd also successfully prevailed upon Kestral to wear a dress (though it had been a tough fight), convinced Sabatt to forego her usual attire so that she wouldn't frighten the Janubians (marginally easier) and managed to make Marcus wear a doublet and trousers instead of a suit of armour (nigh impossible, but somehow she'd done it). With everything and everyone whipped into shape, it was time for her to go and welcome the guests at the harbour. The ship from Sahir al-Awan was nearing the docks, according to the messenger, so she had perhaps half an hour. That was just enough time to –

"Hey," Marcus called from above, jogging down the stairs. "Situation?"

"Under control," she said briskly, pausing and shooting him a tired smile. "You look nice."

He blushed and smoothed down his doublet. "Posh enough?"

"I think so." She pecked him on the cheek – then, on impulse, leaned against his chest. Oh, she was exhausted.

"You okay?" he asked, rubbing her back gently.

"Yes, I'm fine," she responded, promptly betraying herself by yawning. Marcus held her a little closer.

"Ready to drop looks more accurate. Go sit down for an hour."

She shook her head slightly. "I've got to go and meet –"

"I can handle that. You need a break."

"Thank you, but I'm perfectly all –" She started to stand up straight, then swayed as the world lurched unexpectedly. Her vision blurred, her ears rang, and for a second she was certain that she was going to faint.

But she didn't, not completely, and when all returned to normality she was sagging groggily against her husband, who was looking distinctly freaked out.

"Actually," she mumbled, "a rest sounds like a good idea."

"_Now_ she listens to me," said Marcus dryly. He guided her across the hall and through the door to the chart room. The Knights' cozy domain was not among the rooms that guests would be received in, so it was as cluttered and comfortable as ever. And, more importantly, quiet. Alandra permitted Marcus to steer her to the armchair by the fireplace and relaxed into it with a sigh. He flicked a thick woollen blanket from the chair's back and tucked it around her, giving her a light kiss on the forehead. "Stay put for a while. Hey, you could even have a nap if you want."

She eyed him balefully through half-closed lids. "If you think I'm going to sleep on the job –"

"– she says while already practically out," he interrupted with a chuckle. "When do I need to get down to the harbour?"

She snuggled deeper into the chair's cushions. "By ten o'clock, at the latest, I think."

"Got it." He kissed her briefly on the lips. "Sleep tight, Lani."

…

Kestral gritted her teeth and adjusted the fit of her belt. The loose shirt looked strange on her, but it was marginally more formal than armour, and therefore sufficient to shut Alandra up. Hopefully. Honestly, why in Westerlin did she need to dress up just because they had a few visitors?

She twisted a bit in the front of the mirror and adjusted her green headscarf, then glanced at her face. Yikes. Not only did she have whacking great circles under her eyes, but she was practically glaring at herself. Not good.

Closing her eyes, she heaved a sigh. _Just act normal, Kes. Get in there, make polite small talk, get out. Don't do anything stupid, don't drop any crockery, and, above all, don't make eye contact with … _ugh. It wasn't working. No matter how many times she told herself to calm down, her heart flipped upside down at the very thought of being in the same room with Hakim. She'd already run through about twenty different strategies for dealing with the inevitable awkwardness, and they were all as bad as each other.

She gave it up as a bad job and left her bedroom. The upper stairway thronged with servants and staff; some of them were definitely Janubian. Oh, great, they were here already.

Ugh. Even her thoughts had become sarcastic.

She needed to eat, that was it. Preferably something extremely sugary. She hadn't had anything all morning, and her stomach was growling. A few trotted steps brought her to the main staircase, and she jogged down it and across the hall into one of the passages.

Oddly enough, this particular route was deserted. Presumably no tea or food needed to be brought out right this second; that, or the stewards didn't want to clog up the hall with the chance of foreign royalty marching through any minute. Never mind that the foreign royalty was perfectly used to sitting at Castle Vestholm's kitchen table munching on a sandwich.

And now she was feeling all weepy and nostalgic. She pinched herself on the arm, hard, and it did the trick. Mostly. Just a few more yards between her and a decent lemon muffin.

Then Kestral's foot collided with something, and the something whimpered. She stumbled sideways. "What –"

The Something was a small child, probably about a year old. He was curled up on his side next to the wall, hugging his legs, staring up at her with enormous dark eyes. His skintone and clothing told her all she needed to know – one of the Janubian party, definitely. And a little too adventurous for his own good, by the look of it.

"Did I hurt you?" she asked without really expecting a response, crouching next to him. "I'm sorry."

He blinked, lower lip quivering, and Kestral's heart promptly melted into a pile of gooey mush. "It's okay," she said as soothingly as she could. "It's all right. Don't you _dare_ cry, mister, or I'll spaz out too and then Lackbeard or someone'll find both of us having hysterics and dump cold water over us. And I don't like cold water."

For another few seconds, he looked like he was still going to burst into tears – but then he shifted and tucked his thumb between his lips, watching her curiously. Emboldened, she reached out and rubbed his shoulder, grinning. "You better not be making fun of me, cutie, or it's war. Now where's your mum, huh? Did you lose her? Careless of you."

He clearly had absolutely no idea what she was saying, but a tiny smile crept onto his face. He reached out with his free hand, and she accepted the invitation, scooping him into her arms and clambering back to her feet.

"Now," she said, starting back the way she came. "I'd show you around properly, but your mum probably wants you back, and I'd hate to cause an international incident. So let's just keep it brief, shall we? Yummy stuff that way, boring stuff this way. Unfortunately, grown-ups first, lemon muffins later." She kept up the monologue as they headed down the corridor, and somewhere around her description of how exactly to bake a muffin without burning the poppyseeds he rested his head against her shoulder with a little contented sigh.

"You _are_ a cutie, aren't you?" she murmured, resisting the urge to babytalk. "Now, we'll try the living room first, I think, since that'll be where everyone's –"

At that point they emerged into the hall, and the small boy wriggled and gave a delighted cry. Kestral looked up instinctively, and flinched.

He hadn't changed a bit. Well, okay, his tan was a tad deeper, and he wore formal robes instead of the cloak and hood, but the stance, beard, nose, eyes – all were so familiar it hurt.

For a few long seconds they stared blankly at one another; then the kid squirmed again, reaching for Hakim, and she snapped out of it and hurried over, transferring the child to his arms.

_So much for not making eye contact. _

Wisey said something to the boy, and the kid clung to him, granting Kestral a beatific smile. She giggled despite herself, then cleared her throat. "He, uh, wandered off, I'm guessing."

"Correct. And terrified his mother into the bargain." His voice was exactly as she'd remembered it, too. "I should report his discovery before she has Lord Marcus calling out the guard."

"Good idea." She bit her lip. _Come on, Kes. Pull yourself together. _"So, what – umm – he a relation of yours?"

Hakim – no, _Ammar_ – nodded, patting the child's back. "Lady Kestral of Gallos, may I present my nephew? Temel, this is Lady Kestral."

"Pleased to meet you, Prince Temel," she responded with a chuckle, bowing. "How do you do?"

The thumb returned promptly to the mouth, and Kestral spluttered. "He _is_ making fun of me, isn't he?"

Hakim looked down at her again, eyes locked on hers, and whatever he'd been about to say seemed to vanish mid-thought. Fortunately for the sanity of both of them, an unfamiliar female voice rang from the other side of the hall, and they both turned. A young woman in light blue robes came racing across the cobbles, rapidly relieving Wise Boy of his burden. Temel didn't seem to resent it in the slightest, snuggling against her neck and closing his eyes with a blissful mumble.

The woman said something to Hakim in Janubian, and he responded matter-of-factly in Westerlin. "Thank Lady Kestral. Lady Kestral of Gallos – my sister, Princess Farihah."

Kestral curtsied properly this time, acutely aware of how stupid it looked when she was wearing trousers. "Your Highness."

The princess bobbed, smiling broadly. Wisey's sister was tall, dark, and extremely pretty, with exactly the same eyes as the child in her arms. "Thank you, Lady Kestral. Temel _will _charge off the second you turn your back, there is no help for it. I hate to think what will happen once he learns to run." Her Westerlin was excellent, if heavily accented – rather like Hakim's, really.

"He will probably be perfectly fine," that man responded dryly, and received a swat on the arm for his troubles.

"You are impossible. But I suppose that is to be expected, since you do not have any children of your own." Farihah giggled, turning to Kestral. "He will have plenty of opportunities to learn soon, I fancy. You have met Princess Saraya, have you not? Please tell me all about her – Ammar will not say a word beyond the obvious!"

Kestral stiffened. Could she have possibly asked her a more awful question? A memory of Hidun's princess whining about an uncomfortable bedroll forcefully presented itself, and it was all she could do to squash it. Avoiding Hakim's gaze at all costs, she forced a smile. "She's, uh, unique."

"I imagine that any woman that could capture Ammar's attention would have to be." Farihah smiled again – charmingly, Kestral had to admit – and cuddled her son closer. "Will you excuse me? I must go and tell my husband that Temel is all right. I'm sure you two Knights have lots of catching up to do."

"Actually," Hakim interceded smoothly, no trace of emotion on his face. "I must discuss a matter with Doruk, if he's to be found."

Something inside Kestral's chest went numb.

"Oh! He is with Jabir, I think. Come, you will have to show me the way back, in any case. It is lovely to meet you, Lady Kestral." Farihah curtsied and whirled, walking gracefully back the way she came. Hakim followed her, pausing only to give Kestral the faintest of bows.

The second the Janubians were through the door, Kestral ran a hand through her hair, loosening her scarf.

Well, that was that. The first meeting was over, if not the awkwardness. Now, perhaps, she'd be able to breathe.

Oh, who was she kidding?

"Hey, Kes!" Marcus came charging through one of the side doors, panting. "Sabatt wanted to know what you've done with the offsite guest list – don't know why I've suddenly become messenger boy, but – you all right?"

"Yeah," she mumbled, hugging herself. "I just – oh, you know what? I'd really like to be a kid again."

Marcus blinked a few times. "Ooookay."

She shrugged wearily. "I know it sounds weird. But they've got it so _easy. _Doesn't matter what the problem is – one cuddle from mum, and suddenly everything's gonna be fine."

He watched her for a few seconds, then walked over to her, sighing. "It will be fine, Kes," he said quietly. "Honestly, it will."

"Yeah, like I haven't been told that before."

"Would I lie to you?"

"You really want me to answer that?"

Marcus rolled his eyes, then half-hugged her. "Well, it could be worse. The kitchen could be out of lemon muffins."

"Perish the thought. You hungry?"

"_Starving._"

…

Hakim's head was spinning.

Farihah was saying something about the Westerlings being absolutely charming, but his mind was refusing to quite comprehend her words. How could he have made such an utter fool of himself? He'd rehearsed again and again what he intended to say when meeting Kestral – calmly, unemotionally, even coldly – but the second he had laid eyes on her, it had all flown directly from his head, leaving him a babbling fool unable to think of anything but how absolutely beautiful she looked. And then she'd smiled and laughed and been so _Kestral_ that it was all he could do to avoid taking her in his arms then and there. Fortunately, Temel had been there to keep him relatively sane.

The small boy was watching him from his mother's shoulder, thumb in his mouth, eyes curious. Typical. Even a toddler could detect his inner turmoil, let alone –

He needed to think. To be by himself, just for ten minutes: he had to give himself a chance to straighten his thoughts and calm his erratic pulse. The thought of trying to make polite conversation in his current state was making him nauseous.

He halted mid-stride, and Farihah paused, looking up at him in bewilderment. "Ammar, is something the matter?"

"No," he lied quickly. Temel raised a tiny eyebrow, and he cleared his throat. "Well, yes. But it's nothing serious – merely a sudden headache." That, at least, was not a falsehood.

"Do you need to go and lie down?"

"No, it's not severe. I'll just find somewhere to sit quietly for a while. Thank you."

Farihah's eyes clouded with concern, but she made no attempt to stop him as he turned and walked back the way they had come. The library's door was ajar, and he slipped through it. The others were meant to be in the living room, so he should be safe enough for the present. Not for the first time, he regretted agreeing to Abdul's suggestion of asking Vestholm to host the wedding. It had been a terrible idea so far, and most likely would continue to be so.

He dropped into a chair, burying his head in gloved hands – then stood again almost immediately, pacing frantically. He couldn't do this. He could _not_ just stand there and smile and play the part of the delighted groom while his betrothed and his beloved were two separate beings. True, Kestral did not want him, but that did not mean he had to doom himself to –

Oh, but he _couldn't _back out. Not now. There was more than his happiness at stake here. National alliances hung in the balance, and he couldn't risk his country's well-being on a selfish whim. He'd made his decision – in a mire of depression and desperation, yes, but he'd still made it – and he had to see this through to the end, even if it killed him.

The door creaked. He spun – and was overwhelmed by a distinctly uncomfortable sense of deja-vu. Crimson Sabatt stood in the entrance, her brow lifting as she saw him.

"Southerner," she said stiffly, avoiding direct eye contact.

"Sabatt."

She inclined her head slightly. "I was searching for one of the guest lists."

"Oh." He glanced around automatically and fruitlessly. "I'm afraid I cannot help you."

She shrugged dismissively, resting both hands on the head of her cane. "Your Highness, may I speak plainly?"

He doubted that he could stop her if he tried. "If you think it necessary."

"I do." For the first time, she looked up and met his eyes, and he almost flinched under her furious scrutiny. "How _dare_ you?" she snapped in a heated undertone. "How could you do this to Kestral? Really, Ammar, I would have thought she'd had enough heartbreak for one lifetime. What makes you think you need to add to it?"

He tensed. The accusation ripped him raw. "_I_ broke _her_ heart?" he blurted. "Kindly do not involve yourself in affairs where you have such a poor grasp of the facts!"

"Actually, I believe I have a very firm understanding of the facts." Her brows lowered. "I know that you took her for granted, ignored her perfectly reasonable concerns, and stabbed her in the back purely because she wasn't willing to melt into your arms seconds afterwards!" She inhaled sharply. "She loves you, Southerner, though I can't pretend to understand why, and she's spent the past two months in utter agony because _you_ decided to be a selfish ingrate."

Hakim blinked numbly, his mind struggling to process her words. "What do you mean, took her for granted?" he croaked.

"You just expected her to follow you blindly, without even a proper proposal of marriage or – Ammar, you didn't even tell her you loved her!"

He stared blankly at Sabatt's face, his mind racing back yet again over the conversation that had caused him so much agony – but this time, from an altered perspective. Maria was horribly right. Not once had Kestral actually rejected him; but his pride had been wounded, and so he hadn't even tried to see her objections for the pleas for reassurance that they were. For the first time in months, he saw his actions clearly, and it was not possible for him to despise himself more.

Sabatt sighed, voice softening minutely. "She was yours for the asking, Ammar. You simply never asked."

And the point was driven home like a knife to the gut. He gasped raggedly, mind caught in a torturous cycle of self-recrimination. He'd had a chance at happiness, and like a fool he'd tossed it to the winds. Worse, he'd hurt Kestral, and there was nothing he could do to fix it.

Sabatt quietly turned and left the room, but he barely noticed her departure. Instead he stood stock still, consumed with anguished self-loathing.

Suddenly, he could take it no longer. His fury urgently required an outlet, and so he lashed out at the nearest sturdy inanimate object he could find.

Which, regrettably, happened to be a stone wall.

…

Farihah was more than a little nervous about meeting the Queen of the Darion Empire. While she was no stranger to the customs of royalty, the monarch of two-thirds of the known world was a little more intimidating than the ruler of a Janubian principality. She soon discovered, however, that her fears were groundless. Rather than the stern national matriarch that Fari had been expecting, the Queen was kindly, good-natured, and, the princess suspected, almost a little shy. She made all the correct small talk with politeness and grace, then excused herself to discuss a matter with Lady Alandra, whom Farihah understood was her chief advisor. Her Ladyship seemed equally polite and kind, though, oddly, she looked like she had only just awakened.

With the two senior women closeted in a corner, the Janubian visitors were left to converse with the remainder of the Knights of Darion. Fari had already met Lord Marcus at the harbour – she thought him quite the gentleman, if young – and Lady Kestral she had already been introduced to. They were certainly a diverse group.

A throat cleared nearby, interrupting Farihah's momentary reverie. She glanced over her shoulder, and came face to face with a woman of uncertain age, clad in a red gown. Her face was covered with white scars.

"Your Highness," she said, surprisingly pleasantly, in Farihah's own language. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"No, I do not think so." Fari turned completely and offered her free hand – the other was clutching Temel. "Delighted to meet you. I am Ammar's sister."

"I know." The woman's eyes twinkled. "You probably know me as Crimson Sabatt."

Farihah flinched instinctively. The name was well-known to her, and carried with it a reputation that might well make a statue cringe. "Oh. I – I see."

To her amazement, Sabatt laughed. "Don't look so terrified. It's been a while since I have attempted to oppress your homeland, and I shan't be trying again. This is your son?"

"Yes," she said uneasily, not certain whether or not this woman could be trusted to even be in the presence of her child. "Temel."

"Ah. Congratulations."

Farihah tried to smile, desperately trying to think of a way of excusing herself without causing offence. Before any such scheme came to mind, Aminah came racing up to her, face grave.

"Mother," she said, tone deeply serious. "These people are scary."

Farihah wasn't certain whether to giggle or flush. She pulled Aminah close to her. "Hush, dearest."

"Oh, it's quite all right." Sabatt chuckled. "Why do you say that, uh –"

"Aminah," Farihah supplied.

Sabatt nodded. "Aminah?"

The small girl looked up at Sabatt guardedly. "They talk funny. You don't, though."

"Thank you." Her smile became startlingly genuine. "You know, Your Highness, she looks very much as you did when you were her age."

Farihah frowned. How could Crimson Sabatt possibly know what she looked like as a four year old? She'd never seen –

Then she met the woman's cool amber eyes, and gasped impulsively. "_Maria_?"

Sabatt – no, Maria – quirked her lip. "Well done. Far better than your brother, certainly. He had to be told almost outright."

"Oh, but he has a memory like a sieve," Fari assured her, giggling. "I wouldn't let that trouble you." Her fears were dwindling rapidly. Vague memories were flitting back, and it was hard to be afraid when you could recall someone as a seven year old with jam on her chin.

Lady Kestral came charging over at that point, grinning broadly. "So, this side of the family doing better on the recognition test?"

"Significantly," Maria responded with a laugh.

Farihah joined her, nodding a greeting to Kestral. "I do not remember much, I admit, but – oh yes! You and Ammar built me a sandcastle for my dolls!"

"Did we?" Maria's brow creased. "I don't recall that particular incident. I do remember accidentally kicking sand into your eyes."

Kestral spluttered. "Crimmy, you didn't!"

"The key word was accidentally."

"I'm sure it was," Fari placated, laughing. "But to see you again here, after all these years – why, I should never have known you if you hadn't given me a hint!"

"I think you would have worked it out eventually." Maria shrugged one shoulder, face amused.

"That, or Wisey would have spilt the beans." Kestral grinned wryly, then waved to Temel, who smiled shyly. "Hello there."

"Would you like to hold him?" Fari asked. She adored it when people showed interest in her little darlings, and Temel was getting heavy nowadays.

"Love to." Kestral accepted him and hefted him up against your shoulder. "How old is he?"

"Fourteen months."

"Oh, you're a big boy now, huh?" Kestral giggled. "Making Mummy proud?"

Farihah smiled. "He certainly is."

Within about twenty minutes, she'd been at least temporarily accepted into their circle. Maria and Kestral appeared to be firm friends, and Kestral especially was willing to welcome the Janubian princess into the fold. She wasn't sure whether it was because she was Ammar's sister or because she had an adorable toddler, but it was probably a bit of both. Aminah stayed silent throughout the conversation, unable to understand the Westerlin, blinking curiously up at the two strangers with her face half-hidden in her mother's skirts.

Her Majesty suggested that the company repair to the living room, and the other two women excused themselves and left the hall. Aminah twisted and looked up at Farihah, pouting.

"Why the disappointed face, sweetheart?" Fari asked, stroking her daughter's cheek with a giggle.

"I thought that lady didn't speak funny, but she does after all."

Farihah shifted Temel to her right hip and took Aminah's hand, starting toward the exit. "It's a different language, _lateefa. _One day you will learn it."

"I don't think I want to. It sounds weird."

Ammar approached at that moment, soon enough to hear Aminah's last comment. He cracked a smile. "Sometimes I find myself thinking the same, Ami."

The little girl beamed up at her uncle, and, as they walked through the door, reached up and took his right hand. To Farihah's shock, he gave a strangled yell and yanked it away, clutching it to his chest.

"Ammar, what –" she began, tightening her hold on Aminah as tears sprung to the startled child's eyes. Fortunately, he recovered himself rapidly.

"I'm sorry, Aminah," he managed, gasping slightly. "Just – hold my other hand."

Aminah nodded dubiously, then let go of her mother and walked to his other side, slipping her hand into his. While the rest of the group had definitely noticed the incident, judging by the worried looks they were giving him, none of them voiced their concern. Farihah glanced surreptitiously at her brother's hand, but his gloves made her reconnaissance fruitless.

"Did you hurt your hand?" she asked softly.

"It's nothing," he responded, far too quickly. Farihah searched his face, but that was equally pointless. Ammar had always been able to hide his every thought any time he chose; it was frustrating, but no amount of persuasion on her part had ever had any effect. He had been particularly bad over the past few months. He'd never shown any sign of unusual emotion since his return to Jumajir – even when announcing his engagement to Princess Saraya, he'd been matter-of-fact and calm. Yes, he'd been affectionate towards his family, but otherwise he might as well have been chiselled from marble. The one exception had been on the journey to Vestholm, when she'd caught him staring listlessly out into the distance, an almost frightening sadness in his eyes. But, of course, when she'd confronted him, he'd categorically denied feeling at all upset.

"Ammar," she said softly as they walked down the corridor. "I wish you would tell me what's wrong."

He sighed. "I hurt my hand, that is all."

"No, it's not."

He looked down at her, lips pressed together, expression stiff. "There isn't anything you can do, Fari."

"How do I know for sure unless you tell me?"

"Believe me, there's nothing anyone can do." He lowered his right hand to his side again, apparently recovered. "But thank you."

Farihah was not sure what to think, but the most she could give him was a sympathetic smile. He returned it faintly, then returned his attention to the corridor ahead.


	5. In Which Aminah Is Helpful

Hakim seated himself on one of the living room sofas, positioning his right hand carefully on the armrest. It was throbbing horribly, and he dreaded what it was going to look like when he took off his glove. If he could even get it off.

_You deserve it,_ he told himself firmly. _Stupid fool_.

"Uncle?" Aminah tugged on his trouser leg. "Can I sit on your knee?"

"Of course," he responded politely, assisting her onto his lap with his uninjured hand. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Sort of," she said matter-of-factly. "I like Lady Sabatt."

Hakim schooled his expression. "Do you, now?"

"Mmm-hmm." She wriggled a little and leaned against his chest. "Is your hand sore?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

She blinked at him, eyes wide with sympathy, looking almost exactly like a miniature version of her mother. "Will it help if I kiss it better?"

How could one possibly say no to a question like that? He chuckled softly and placed his aching fist in her hands. "I'm sure it will."

She smiled broadly and gently kissed his knuckles. The pressure hurt, but he wouldn't have admitted it for the world. "There."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," she said pertly, and he barely managed to hold in a laugh.

"Being cheeky, little one?" Jabir said with mock severity, sitting down next to them. Farihah had already perched on the other end of the sofa, Temel in her arms; Doruk sat across the room next to the unlit fireplace, and the Knights of Darion were scattered about the room. Hakim was deliberately trying not to notice Kestral, but it was a fruitless effort: from the moment that she'd entered the room, he'd seen her every movement. Now she was sitting over by the window, obviously struggling with the temptation to curl her legs up in the chair as she usually did, and he couldn't quite stop a half-smile.

"No, I'm not," objected Aminah, recalling him to his duties as an uncle. "I was helping."

"She was making my hand better, apparently," Hakim explained, and Jabir smirked.

"Ah, I see."

Aminah pouted, but her uncle had no time to make amends. Alandra was addressing Doruk, and the discussion required his full attention.

"Forgive me, but I'm not completely certain what office you hold," she was saying with an apologetic smile. "You live in Jumajir, I understand?"

"Yes," Doruk responded politely, his characteristic smile neatly in place, perched on the edge of the cushioned armchair with a faint air of discomfort. The enormous seats were very different from accommodations in Janub, and he was clearly having difficulties growing used to them. "I am an independent landowner, with no official governmental office, but –"

"You have a lot of influence, I'm guessing," Thordal finished for him with a booming laugh.

Doruk smirked. "I suppose you could say that, yes. Prince Ammar was kind enough to drag me halfway across the world in order to watch him get married, which –"

"That is not fair," Hakim protested, amused. "You _asked_ if you could be my assistant for the duration, if you recall."

Doruk pretended to reflect on that point, and Farihah gave a giggle. "Doruk, do not be cruel."

"Far be it from me," Doruk said magnanimously. "I think you had better question someone else, Lady Alandra. My esteemed relations are – how do you put it? – ganging up on me."

"If you wish." Alandra smiled. "How are matters in Sahir al-Awan? Is all prospering?"

Hakim nodded briefly. "Well enough. No economic strife, certainly."

Marcus leaned forward, grimacing. "But did you find out anything? I mean, about the attempt to ..."

Hakim stiffened. That was a reminder he would rather not have received; judging by the various reactions of the rest of the room, it was the same for them. "About the assassination attempt?" he responded cautiously. "Yes, I discovered a little, but it hardly helped matters – muddled them further, in fact. I have very little to work with, regrettably." He tried to end the sentence with a note of finality, and thus end the subject, but some would not be dissuaded.

Doruk raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you forgetting a few important details?"

Hakim echoed the motion, feigning obliviousness. He wasn't sure what was motivating his reluctance to tell the whole tale of the past weeks; he preferred to think that he was simply keeping important matters of state to himself, but a nagging voice at the back of his mind disagreed. "To what are you referring?"

"The frankly ridiculous number of attempts on your life since then, that's all," Doruk responded dryly. The response from the Knights of Darion was not quite so blasé. Various exclamations burst forth; of the Darionites, only Sabatt and Kestral were silent. The latter was staring down at her hands, gripping them tightly together. The nagging voice became a reproving bellow, and it only intensified as Aminah cringed at the noise. The small girl couldn't understand a word, but she could obviously easily notice the tension. He tightened his hold on her and she settled against him.

"Thank you, Doruk," Jabir said with cutting calm.

"My pleasure," the elder of the two brothers replied ironically, leaning back in his chair.

Sabatt spoke, her tone quiet but commanding enough to silence all murmurs. "In the same style?"

"No." Hakim forced himself to look away from Kestral. "They have been quite impressively varied, as a matter of fact. There was the crossbow first, the day after I arrived in Jumajir – then a sand trap, then the drugged horse, then – oh, I forget." He didn't, not a moment of it, but he was not keen on outlining the rest before Kestral. She was already turning an alarming shade of white, lips pressed together in what he recognised as quiet fury.

"The poisoned ink was next, I think," Doruk said meditatively. "Then the razor wire, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Hakim confirmed hesitantly. "After all that, they became a little more ... direct. I had to change bedchambers about three times in one week, thanks to a nocturnal invader and an untimely fire."

"You forgot the snake," Jabir murmured, suppressed amusement in his tone.

Hakim shot him a brief glare. "I think you'll agree that was dealt with adequately."

Jabir and Doruk both laughed outright at that, and both earned a reproving look from Farihah, who was clutching Temel to her chest as if all these threats were about to spring from the stonework. "Fortunately," she said, her voice trembling a little, "there was nothing on the journey here."

Hakim nodded in full agreement. The idea of the unknown assassins attempting to send him to the bottom of the ocean gave him chills, and he hadn't had a single good night's sleep whilst on the vessel as a result. As a matter of fact, he hadn't had a single good night's sleep in Jumajir, either.

He met Sabatt's eyes, silently pleading her to change the subject; surprisingly, she obliged, and soon the discussion was safely transferred to trade and commerce, which, while hardly riveting, at least allowed him to relax a little. He glanced surreptitiously at Kestral; she, too, had calmed down, and was instead wearing an expression of utter boredom. Relieved, he shifted Aminah onto his other knee and did his best to focus on fish exports.

...

"Doruk? A word."

The elder of the al-Razi brothers nodded slightly, slowing his pace in order to allow the younger to catch up. Jabir quickened his pace and came even with him. The hallways of Castle Vestholm, while pleasant enough with their stonework and ornate tapestries, were far from private, and the topic he intended to discuss demanded discretion. Fortunately, there was an open door just ahead; a quick glance through confirmed the room beyond as the library.

He stepped in, signalling to Doruk to do the same, then closed the portal behind them.

Doruk raised both eyebrows in inquiry. "Well?"

Jabir took a deep breath, crossing his arms. The anger in his tone startled him. "Were you _intending_ to openly defy Ammar, or did your brain momentarily fly out the window?"

The elder man coloured briefly, his brow furrowing. "I beg your pardon?"

"I would have thought it was quite plain that he did _not_ wish to discuss the assassination attempts, yet you forced the issue. Three times, if I'm not mistaken." Jabir shook his head, forcing himself to speak more evenly. An argument would help no one. "It might not have been outright disobedience, but it was close to it – and in front of the leadership of an allied nation, no less! Precisely what kind of reputation do you want to give us?"

Doruk's gaze hardened; he took one measured breath. "You think it is wise for our hosts to be unaware of the immediate threat? My apologies."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. If you wanted security to be increased, you should have spoken to Ammar about it privately, rather than dragging it up in public against his will. And." Jabir increased his glare. "You frightened Farihah. You know she hates to have it talked about."

"Ah. So that's what this comes down to."

"No, it's not. That is but a part of it." Jabir sighed. "Informality is one thing, but defiance is another. Are you going to listen, or am I talking to a cliff face?"

The two brothers watched one another steadily for a moment, then Doruk nodded and rubbed his face. "I apologise. I suppose I was rather lacking in tact."

"You can say that again."

"I suppose I was rather lacking in tact."

Jabir rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry, but you won't be getting appointed court jester at this rate." He moved over to one of the plush couches and settled into it. "Your apologies are owed to Ammar, not me."

"And they shall be delivered." Doruk sat next to his brother. "Is he all right, do you think?"

Jabir grimaced. "I hardly know. He's even less communicative these days, if that's possible. But he can't be blamed for a certain reserve, given the situation."

Doruk nodded, then lowered his voice. "You made the checks?"

"Yes. None of the nobles coming here have any known connections with the Desert Raiders, and nor do any of their staff. Not that that will help if it turns out Ammar is correct and they genuinely have nothing to do with it."

"I can't understand why he believed that assassin," grumbled Doruk.

Jabir chuckled. "You may have forgotten, dear brother, but apparently Janubians are not supposed to lie."

"I think the whole world has forgotten." Doruk shrugged. "But if it's not the Raiders –"

"There are any number of suspects, in that case. Without further evidence, there's little we can accomplish."

Doruk steepled his fingers. "Jabir," he said, very quietly. "You do realise that – perhaps – they have a point? Even with the bias of friendship, I must admit that Ammar's actions over the past few years haven't been exactly praiseworthy. Gallivanting across the known world is all well and good, but hardly shows acceptance of responsibility."

It was a long time before Jabir could trust himself to respond. His fingers clenched around the arm of the chair, seemingly without his volition. "I cannot deny," he said slowly, "that I have more than once wished it were still Ghalib on the throne – or at least that Ammar would willingly accept his office and provide stability." He cleared his throat. "But you're coming dangerously close to treason, Doruk."

"I did not say that I wanted him to be killed. I merely said that the assassin's motives are understandable."

Jabir watched him for a second, then shrugged ruefully. "I doubt there's a single ruler in history with a spotless record. One could probably come up with an argument for the just killing of Dario if one wanted to."

"I'll admit that." Doruk frowned. "Jabir. You do realise, that, if one of these attempts should succeed and Ammar should be killed, you would be Temel's regent?"

"It had occurred."

"My dear brother," Doruk said in mock dismay, opening his eyes wide. "I'm afraid that makes _you_ the prime suspect, doesn't it?"

Jabir eyed him balefully. "Your sense of humour grows worse by the moment."

"You're such a killjoy." Doruk stood. "I shall see you at dinner?"

"I expect so."

...

Hakim tugged gingerly at the fingertips of his glove, then pulled hard. Pain shot through his knuckles and up his arm, and he barely stopped himself from crying out. Instead he gave a low hiss and sank onto the sofa, cradling his fist against his chest.

"That will teach you to lose your temper," he told himself firmly, aloud. It did no good, either to his emotional state or his pain levels. Perhaps he could ask Alandra to ... no. No, he was not limping to Alandra like a little boy with a skinned knee. He was more than capable of handling this on his own. If he could just get his glove off.

He tried again, more gently this time, easing the fabric over the back of his hand. But even slight pressure set his hand aflame. He grunted, gritting his teeth, willing himself not to be such a child.

A rap on the door. Hakim stiffened instinctively, then forced himself to relax. The odds of any danger within the walls of Castle Vestholm itself were negligible. Still, he could hear the wariness in his voice as he responded. "Who is it?"

"You can stop sounding so terrified, Your Highness. Were I an evil Desert Raider bent on slitting your throat, I do not think I would knock."

Hakim rolled his eyes, doing his best to mask the pain he knew must be in his expression. "Come in, Doruk."

The other man accepted the invitation, closing the door behind him. His eyes flicked down to Hakim's hand. "Is something wrong?"

Hakim grimaced in response. Doruk was irritatingly good at seeing directly through subterfuge. "I had a disagreement with the library stonework. It won."

"Have you had a doctor look at it?"

Hakim shook his head. Alandra was the castle's primary medic, and going to any of her staff would result in the story coming instantly to her ears; the embarrassment at having to describe the circumstances of his injury was not worth the assistance. "No, but I don't think it's necessary. There's little a doctor could do that I can't myself." He paused, glancing down at the swollen appendage. "Assuming, of course, that I can get this glove off."

Doruk came over, looking closely at it. "You're going to have to cut it off, I think."

"The glove or my hand?"

"Either."  
>Hakim raised both his eyebrows, then stood and headed for his desk. The bedchamber he had been given in Castle Vestholm was not his old room – fortunately, as that would have felt strange indeed – but was very similar in appointments. A penknife was tucked away in the top drawer, and he carefully set to work on the fabric with it. For a few moments, he worked in silence; then Doruk spoke, clearing his throat. "I owe you an apology, Your Highness."<p>

Hakim paused in mild surprise. Aside from his usual ill-timed humour, his friend hadn't done much to offend him since the crab incident six years earlier, and it was a little late to be expecting atonement for that now. "Oh?"

"I should not have discussed the assassination attempts against your will. It was less than tactful, and –" He hesitated. "– unkind."

Hakim shook his head in brief dismissal. Truth be told, he barely remembered Doruk's involvement in the earlier conversation. "Forgiven and forgotten." He resumed his attempt to free his hand. "I suppose the Knights did need to know."

He caught an expression of relief upon Doruk's face as the elder man seated himself on the sofa, then refocused himself with an effort. It would be so much easier to get someone else to do this, but he had enough tattered shreds of pride remaining to resist the temptation.

"Ammar," Doruk said, slowly and thoughtfully.

"Mmm?"

"I understand from Abdul Rasheed that you appointed Jabir as Temel's regent, should anything ... untoward occur."

"You understand correctly," he confirmed, carefully pulling back his glove another half-inch.

"Is that wise, do you think?"

Hakim halted. This was an issue he had thought long and hard about, and he was not terribly pleased with being second-guessed. He kept his tone even. "You think it is not?"

Doruk shifted awkwardly in his seat. "Yes," he said finally, in a tone of brutal frankness. "All the brotherly affection in the world cannot prevent me from forming very unflattering conclusions about Jabir's leadership skills. You've noticed, I'm sure, that the walls of Juahar are still in a crumbling mess, and that is but the half of it."

Yes. Hakim had noticed. He had practically interrogated Jabir as to the state of the western city, and the responses he'd received were extremely worrying. He made a non-committal sound, which Doruk took as an invitation to continue.

"I suppose one could argue that he is but deputy castellan, and so his powers are limited – but, even so, he should have accomplished far more than he has. Even if one leads his inefficiency aside, there are other problems." Doruk gestured restlessly, sighing. "He is compassionate to a fault. An effective ruler needs a certain quantity of ruthlessness, and –"

"And Jabir hasn't an unpleasant bone in his body," Hakim interrupted quietly. "I know." He hissed softly as he eased the glove fully from his hand. His knuckles and fingers were swollen, puffy, and, rather fascinatingly, turning a mottled black and blue. Now that the pressure from the glove had released, the throbbing had intensified tenfold.

"Ouch," Doruk murmured.

"Indeed." Hakim studied it for a second longer, then walked over to his case. He'd asked Badr to pack some basic emergency medical supplies within; sure enough, they were neatly stashed in a pocket within the lid.

"You have bandages in your luggage?" Doruk asked with an incredulous chuckle.

"Given the situation, it's as well to be prepared." Hakim retrieved all the supplies he would need and seated himself next to Doruk, beginning the less-than-comfortable process of strapping up his wounded appendage.

"I'll grant you that." Doruk leaned back and crossed his arms. "You are still determined to appoint him?"

For a long moment, Hakim considered. Doruk's misgivings did not alter his opinion, but they forced him to put into words the rather painful pragmatism that had led him to this point. It didn't help that it essentially amounted to his last will and testament. "There are two sides to every coin, Doruk. I will admit that Jabir is not ideal. But one must think of Temel's future." He twisted the bandages carefully around his hand as he spoke, wincing each time he pressed against the tender flesh. "Such a ruthless regent as might be desirable is also exactly the sort to refuse to relinquish power when the time comes. Even if that does not occur, any selection of a regent other than the obvious might prompt rebellions and rivalries amongst the nobles. Possibly even civil war." He tied the ends of the bandage neatly, then turned and looked Doruk in the eye. "Over the centuries, Sahir al-Awan has handled far worse than relatively weak regencies and come out unscathed, and that was with weaker allies than we have now. I think a couple of decades of slight difficulty and frustration would be a small price to pay for later peace and prosperity. My decision stands."

He braced himself for the inevitable dispute, but instead the other man half-smiled. "If you say so, my prince." He stood and strode to the door, then paused with his hand at the knob. "Have you considered taking any further security measures?"

"The castle is far from lightly guarded," Hakim responded tiredly, checking the knot on his bandage. "I think to second-guess the Knights would show a certain degree of distrust."

"True." Doruk lowered his voice, stepping away from the door again. "Surely you must have a theory, Your Highness. No more dodging the issue."

Hakim shook his head, rubbing his left temple. "I don't know what to think." He sighed. "The quiet over the past two weeks certainly doesn't help the investigation. I'm not sure whether to be glad or frustrated that no one attempted to hurl me over the side of the ship."

"Chivalry, maybe?" Doruk suggested brightly, suddenly grinning. "Perhaps they know you can't swim and want to give you a sporting chance."

Hakim eyed him balefully. "Any more cracks at my lack of aquatic ability, and I think I may just throw you out."

"With one hand?"

"Easily."

Doruk laughed and opened the door. "I'll refrain from testing that, thank you. Until dinner?"

Hakim dismissed him with a nod, then leaned back into the sofa cushions and closed his eyes.

...

Thordal sauntered over to the fence and leaned on it, watching quietly. Maria had quite the setup in the field's centre: fuses, a torch, and all kinds of rubbish almost completely foreign to him. What it was she was doing he wasn't sure, but it was probably vaguely dangerous. Nah, scratch that – _extremely_ dangerous. The very fact that she'd taken it outside the city boundaries of her own accord was a testament to that.

The sun had set about an hour beforehand: night was beginning to come earlier now as summer drew to a close. Only a few of the stars were out – tiny shining specks in a velvet blue sky. Apart from the occasional shout drifting from the city, they were wrapped in silence; all the neighbouring fields were empty of livestock or anything else that might disturb the peace.

Maria glanced up, then raised a hand in greeting. "I suggest you don't come any closer," she warned.

"Why? Y'planning on blowing the city up or something?"

"Or something, yes." She returned to her work, her faint chuckle drifting to his ears. "I do not expect any problems, but it's as well to be prepared."

"Can't argue with that."

After a few minutes, she picked up her torch and cane, then walked over to him, one eyebrow lifted interrogatively. "Are they looking for me up at the castle?"

He shrugged. "Not yet, but they will be soon enough. It's almost dinnertime."

"Ah. Hold this."

She passed him her polished wooden cane, and he accepted it, watching her curiously. "What _are_ you up to, lass?"

She smirked. "Watch."

Then she bent to the ploughed dirt, and, for the first time, Thordal noticed a thin string snaking across the ground between them and her equipment. She touched the torch to its tip, and fire spurted up and raced across the field.

Thordal braced himself, expecting some sort of explosion. But nothing happened. Maria's brow creased. "Well, I suppose there's always issues the first –"

Then something screamed, and one of the packages shot up into the air, the harsh sound softening to a whistle as it rose ever higher. At about fifty feet, it burst outward with a dull bang; burning pieces arched into the air and drifted to the ground, each a different colour. Blue, green, purple, red – it was a dazzling light show, and Thordal blinked, shielding his eyes with one hand.

"Wow," he murmured appreciatively as the last of the fragments fluttered to the dirt.

"Thank you." She tossed her hair over her shoulder, a hint of a smile appearing at the side of her mouth. "I've been working on that for months."

"I figured you had a project, but –" He chortled suddenly, shaking his head. "Never content to just rest on your laurels, are you, hun?"

"Of course not. And, naturally, I could not _possibly_ allow gunpowder to have the last word." She took her cane back with a nod of thanks, then bent and picked up a rough sack from its resting place by a fencepost. "Could you help me clean up?"

"Sure, kitten." He clambered over the fence without difficulty, and the two of them made short work of the job, gathering the remains of Maria's device into the bag. Once it was done, Thordal slung the sack over his shoulder, chuckling.

"I'm surprised we haven't got half the city here freaking out. That could probably be seen for miles."

"Oh, I warned Marcus and the gate guard," she responded airily, starting for the gate. He jogged to catch up.

"And he didn't question it?"

"Of course he did, but he was far too busy to object. Besides, I think he'll be rather pleased with the finished product."

"I'll say. That would be a perfect signalling system – much better than those milk-drinking fires up on the north coast."

"Precisely." She looked up at him, a wry grin making its way across her face. "But mostly I just thought it looked pretty."

For a split-second, he was taken aback – but only for a moment. Then he slipped his free arm around her shoulders, and they made their way back to the castle in companionable silence.

...

Kestral sprinted flat-out down the castle corridor, holding her stupid skirts away from her feet. She was _very_ late to dinner, and therefore trampling all over Diplomatic Rule One. At least she'd finally managed to do up the lacings on the ridiculous garment Alandra had had the nerve to leave in her room. What was the practical purpose of a dress, anyway?

She slammed to a stop outside the dining room archway, tucked her hair behind her ears, and marched in with all the dignity she could muster. Naturally, everyone else was already seated – Her Majesty sat at the head of the enormous table, with the Knights and their guests down each side. All looked up as she entered, and she muttered an apology and slipped into the only empty seat. Which, by a stroke of horrendous bad luck, happened to be directly across from His Highness Prince Ammar.

She shot a glare in the general direction of Crimson Sabatt, but received nothing but a puzzled look in response. She didn't believe it for a moment. Placecard rearrangement was well within Crimmy's nefarious province.

Marcus, seated on her right, nudged her in the arm with a grin. "You're late."

She elbowed him back. "Yeah, that had come to my attention, thanks."

"Just trying to help."

"Sure."

Marcus shook his head laughingly and rejoined the small talk of the rest of the table. Kestral did her best to focus on being a proper and prim adult; sadly, Aminah and Temel had already disappeared in the direction of their beds, so she had no legitimate excuse to not act like a responsible Knight of the realm. After a minute or so, the servants came in with the soup, serving each individually in respectful silence. It was freaking Kestral out.

She picked up her spoon and took a sip, as daintily as she could manage. She had no idea precisely what combination of vegetables had gone into the pot, but the result was delicious. Princess Farihah evidently agreed, as she directed a smile in the Queen's direction.

"My compliments to your chef, Your Majesty. He possesses quite a talent."

In response, Her Majesty exchanged a knowing glance with Alandra, who chuckled. "She, actually, Your Highness. But I'm sure she'll appreciate your praise."

Farihah flushed a little, but she giggled. "My mistake. One is never safe making assumptions, it seems."

Sabatt smirked, lifting her spoon. "No, indeed."

Kestral attempted to copy her elegant motion, and instead almost dumped a spoonful of soup in her lap. She moved to try again, then stopped. Hakim was staring down into his bowl, face almost expressionless. It was a look she knew well.

"Wi – Your Highness, is something wrong?" she ventured.

"I do not wish to cast aspersions on the cook's indisputable skill, Lady Alandra," he said carefully, not moving his gaze. "But there appears to be a not insubstantial quantity of broken glass in my soup."

Kestral flinched. Marcus, halfway through a mouthful, promptly choked on his spoon. Farihah gave a strangled cry, and most of the table went as white as the cloth upon it.

"Well." Thordal's voice broke the silence, sounding almost jovial. "Don't tell everybody, they'll all want some."

For a moment, the atmosphere remained horribly tense, and Kestral wasn't sure herself whether to laugh or freak out. Then Hakim cracked a smile, and the entire table seemed to relax. "My apologies," he said dryly, sounding wonderfully like his old self. "I would be loath to be forced to share."

"I'm terribly sorry," Alandra managed, getting up swiftly. "I've no idea how that could have possibly –"

"I hardly think it's your fault." Hakim offered her a wry smile. "But if you don't mind, I'll wait for the next course."

"Very well." Alandra glanced around, and, evidently seeing that no one would dare another spoonful, silently signalled for the bowls to be cleared. Kestral looked surreptitiously across at Hakim. His air of nonchalance hadn't fooled her for a second, and a glance confirmed that he was looking distinctly pale. Then he glanced up and their eyes met.

"You okay?" she mouthed.

He nodded briefly, grimacing, and she gave a rueful half smile, trying desperately to squash the fear that had mounted in her chest.


	6. In Which There Are Elephants In Vestholm

**Author's Note: **The "Janubian" contained herein is not to be used for educational purposes. :P

* * *

><p>Kestral flopped back onto her bed and crossed her arms over her eyes, groaning out loud. "This is bad."<p>

"Indeed." Kestral couldn't see it, but she was pretty certain Crimson Sabatt was raising her eyebrows. Neither woman had actually stated the necessity of a private conference aloud – they didn't have to. The moment they'd all been freed from the agony of polite conversation, one shared glance had been enough to send both of them scurrying for the nearest neutral meeting place, regardless of the late hour.

She propped herself up on one elbow, rubbing her eyes. "'Kay. What do we do?"

Sabatt did not respond immediately. She was too busy surveying the chaos that was Kestral's quarters with a disgusted grimace. "Bandit, I'm sure an army invading your bedroom and ransacking the place is something that you should have informed us of."

"Sorry, mum, but I have more important things to do than keep my room clean." Kestral sat up fully and crossed her legs. "Seriously, Crims. Focus."

"I am doing my best, but the surroundings –"

Kestral snapped her fingers. "Less complaining, more brainstorming."

Sabatt rolled her eyes and sat demurely on the edge of the bed. "Very well." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "According to Alandra, she and Marcus have already made preliminary inquiries. All the Janubian staff have free run of the kitchens – or at least did until two hours ago, when Goldilocks put a stop to it. The list of suspects is practically endless."

"The list of people who actually could've done the deed, you mean." Kestral rested her chin on her fist. Theories and plans had been racing through her head all evening. "Whoever _actually_ put the glass in Wisey's soup is probably just an agent."

Sabatt nodded. "Almost certainly correct. Which means we need to be focusing on those with motives, rather than those with opportunity."

"Then who has motive?" Kestral wasn't afraid to admit that Crimmy, with all her shady connections and political savvy, was far more likely to have a clear picture of the situation than she did. The former bandit understood crime, yes, but Crimson Sabatt understood politics, and this was more about the latter than the former.

"A crime, particularly a murder," Sabatt said, absentmindedly brushing her hair over her shoulders, "is committed because someone wants something. Revenge, or money, for instance – or, as is most likely in a political situation such as this, power."

Kestral bit her lip, remembering far too many incidents from her own personal history. "Yeah. Who stands to gain most from – well, y'know?" She couldn't bring herself to actually say it. It wasn't as if the concept of Hakim dying was one she'd never considered. They were both in the army, after all – or, at least, had been – and the odds of one of them not coming back from a mission were very familiar to her. But that was war. You expected it then, and were prepared for it. This was entirely different, and it was frightening her more than an army of assailants ever could.

"Whoever would take over, I suppose." Sabatt frowned. "Do we know who that is?"

"No idea."

"I'll find out, then. But we cannot limit our enquiries to the direct succession. His Highness may have other political enemies we are presently unaware of – and then there's the Desert Raiders."

"You don't think it's them." Kestral wasn't asking. Sabatt's dismissive tone was enough to make her opinion obvious.

"No, I do not."

"Why not? The dagger was theirs, and –"

"It doesn't make sense that an organisation devoted for centuries toward serving the rightful monarchy would turn against the first 'rightful' prince in recent history." Sabatt's eyebrow flew up briefly. "However he might neglect his nation."

"I suppose." Kestral wasn't convinced, and her tone must have given it away, for Sabatt eyed her carefully.  
>"I don't think you quite understand how the Raiders operate," she said quietly. "They are not a ragtag bunch of bandits, however it may appear on the surface – many of their agents are high up in Janubian society. It's ingrained into the culture. Furthermore, they still hold true to virtues many of their countrymen now only pay lip service to." She took a deep breath. "Truth and honour are their cornerstone. If they have pledged their loyalty to the Southerner – and they have – they mean it. They will be loyal as long as he is the rightful ruler. If anything, they're almost allies."<p>

Kestral folded her arms, deep in thought. In her experience, few genuinely held to the principles they espoused, but it would be stupid to write the Desert Raiders off as foes simply because they had 'Raiders' in their name. While she didn't agree with Crimmy's assertion that they weren't suspects, it wouldn't hurt to give them the benefit of the doubt. "Okay, then. So what's the plan?"

Sabatt folded her hands in her lap decisively. "Talk to the Janubians. Be discreet, but find out all you can about the succession and possible enemies. Most of our visitors don't trust me, but they'll talk to you. Meanwhile, I'll help the others with the security forces and make my own enquiries."

"Like what?"

Sabatt gave a crooked smile. "Gypsy, you really think I'm going to disclose my methods?"

"Pretty please?"

Sabatt's response was to snatch up a nearby pillow and hurl it with painful precision. Kestral tossed it halfheartedly back, grinning. "No no no. Wrong target. You're supposed to be attacking the _assassins._"

Sabatt mock glared, then abruptly sobered. "On that note. Be very careful. We don't know how much collateral damage our suspect is willing to cause. Don't do anything that will put you in the infirmary." The _or worse_ was unspoken, but plain.

"No action without backup, I got it." Kestral chuckled, climbing off her bed. "In other words, keep a Lackbeard handy at all times. Speaking of which, what time _is _it?"

"Late. Or early."

"I s'pose we'd better get some sleep, then." She looked down at herself ruefully. "Do I have to wear this stupid dress tomorrow?"

"Yes." Sabatt stood and made her way towards the door. "Or Princess Farihah will probably faint clean away on the spot."

Kestral pouted. "You're as bad as Alandra."

"Much worse, in fact. Go to bed."

"Yes, mother."

...

Farihah bent over the bed and tucked the blankets closer around Aminah's chin. Castle Vestholm wasn't nearly as draughty as Ammar had described it, but she was still terrified of her darlings catching cold. The sleeping child stirred a little, but did not wake, and Farihah placed a light kiss on her daughter's forehead before turning her attention to Temel's crib. The little boy was curled up on his side, eyes closed, thumb in his mouth, covers all askew. She moved to pull the blanket properly over him – then stopped as his eyes opened and stared solemnly up at her.

"Temel," she scolded in a whisper, trying not to laugh. "You, young man, should be asleep."

His only reaction was to blink. She giggled silently and stroked his cheek with her finger. "Close your eyes, sweetheart. There, that's better."

"He's still awake?"

She glanced over her shoulder to where Jabir stood in the doorway between their room and the children's. "Yes, I'm afraid. The travel is very unsettling."

"That's certainly true," Jabir murmured, and Farihah was taken aback by the unease in his voice. She tucked Temel in carefully and crossed the temporary nursery to join him.

"Dearest, is something wrong?"

He took a deep breath, then exhaled, rubbing his temple. "There's no need for you to worry about it, Farihah."  
>"I'm your wife," she said firmly, taking his hand and squeezing it. "It's my duty to worry. Tell me, and it will trouble you less."<p>

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

"Well, there's little to be gained by disputing the point." She stepped forward and placed her cheek against his shoulder. "Tell me, and then we'll know for certain."

He chuckled hollowly, wrapping his arms around her with a long sigh. "The soup. This evening."

She shuddered. Each of the attempts on her adored elder brother's life had shaken her to the core, but this one was surely the cruellest. "Yes. I know."

"No, you don't." His hold on her tightened, his voice sinking to a barely audible whisper. "Fari, there – there was glass in my soup as well."

…

_The next morning_

Saraya bounced silently in her seat as her elephant made a maddeningly slow procession through Vestholm, taking in every detail. In truth, she could be better pleased: the great city of the Darion Empire was far from meeting her expectations. It was far dirtier than she had expected, without all the pleasant architecture and splendid decorations of her own dear Hidun. But then, Vestholm was not to be her new home: Jumajir was. She was under every obligation to adore the Janubian city, but free to have her own opinion of Westerlin's capitol.

However, she was in a fair way to forgiving Vestholm its deficiencies. The castle itself was gorgeously bedecked with banners – Hidun's and al-Awan's as well as Darion's own – and what looked like half Darion's army lined the road up the hill to the stone keep. It was quite a sight, even if their uniforms seemed worn and scruffy. Her own attendants, as well as her mount, were dressed in bright bejewelled oranges and greens that made the Darion Army pale in comparison.

Still, with the excitement of finally meeting with her fiancé, the princess was about as thrilled as it was possible for her to be. When they finally reached the courtyard, and she was permitted to dismount (assisted, of course, as her father insisted), it was all she could do to prevent herself from sprinting up to the reception committee.

Lady Alandra and Lord Marcus waited by the grand door to the keep; each had altered slightly, but not enough to make them difficult to recognise. Next to them stood Lord Hakim, looking exactly as she remembered him, and another Janubian gentleman she did not know. Could he be – no, impossible. He was not sufficiently well-attired, not at all.

She forced herself to execute all the precise formalities, responding to each salutation with all the dignified grace required. As soon as she was permitted to speak freely, she smiled, stepping forward. "It is a great pleasure to see you again."

Lady Alandra gave a slight and elegant curtsy. Saraya had never before seen her in a dress, but it became her well. "An honour, as ever."

The princess could not resist a giggle. While the events in Basa and Hidun had been far from enjoyable, there was a certain pleasure in a chance to reminisce – and a greater pleasure in realising that she actually had a military history to reminisce about. "This is going to be quite like old times."

Lord Marcus grinned wryly. He seemed a little older than when she had last seen him, almost two years earlier: he had developed a few more lines about the eyes and mouth, anyway. "Please, not _too_ much like old times. I'm not keen on reliving that."

Alandra chuckled and slipped her arm into his – oh, yes, they had gotten married, hadn't they? "If it helps, there won't be tents involved this time." She glanced past Saraya at the Mogul. "Shall we go in?"

Saraya's father gave his permission graciously, and they formed a sketchy procession. Saraya was momentarily at a loss as to where she was to stand – in Hidun, she would generally be escorted inside by her father, but he was occupied asking Marcus and Alandra about the wedding arrangements. Fortunately, the problem was solved for her. Lord Hakim materialised at her side and politely offered her his arm. "Your Highness."

"Thank you," she murmured gratefully, accepting it, forcing herself not to make eye contact. She had thought that her girlish infatuation with him had abated in the past two years, but her heartbeat told another tale. He guided her through the door and into the entry hall, and Saraya made herself take in her surroundings with a modicum of attention. Staircase, tapestries – the décor was completely alien to her, and almost jarring. Her grip on Lord Hakim's arm must have tightened, for he turned and looked down at her.

"Princess Saraya," he said, slightly stiffly, voice quiet. "I am afraid I owe you an apology."

Saraya blinked, unsuccessfully searching her brains for an offence. "Whatever for?"

"I have practised a gross deception upon you and your father, and it is high time the truth came to light."

How in the world was one supposed to respond to such an admission? Try as she might, she could think of nothing more intelligent than a blank stare. Luckily, he did not wait for her response, instead taking a deep breath. "My name is not, and never has been, Hakim Abd-Al Sar. I adopted the alias early in the war with Raudrlin, for reasons that ceased to be applicable long ago. My introduction to you in Basa was under entirely false pretences."

No. No, surely not – "Then – who _are _you?"

He hesitated momentarily, lowering his voice yet further. "My name is Ammar."

For several long seconds, Saraya was completely bereft of speech. _He _was – _Hakim _was – it simply would not sink in. Suddenly, she realised she was gaping like a fish, and clapped her hands over her mouth. He visibly flinched. "I understand entirely if you are angry, and I am fully prepared to accept –"

He stopped short as Saraya giggled through her fingers – then collapsed into helpless, joyous laughter. The man she had been besotted with for the past two years was her _fiancé_? Oh, this could not be more perfect. "You think I am _angry_?"

"It did occur."

An extremely undignified impulse to hug him asserted itself, and she did not resist it. He tensed for a second, then put his arms around her with a faint, rueful chuckle. "I take it I am wrong, then?"

"Of course you are, silly – I mean, Your Highness!" She released him, beaming up into his face – then rather belatedly remembered they were in public. A glance confirmed that the others were all watching them with amusement – or, in the Mogul's case, puzzled disapproval. She inhaled quickly. "Care to explain this to my father?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I shall endeavour."

…

Kestral slumped against the stone wall, rubbing her face with both hands. "Ugh. Was Saraya always so … Saraya?"

"Yes. Yes, she was." Sabatt folded her hands on the top of her cane, watching the gypsy with mild concern. Kestral had at least managed to keep her composure throughout all the official diplomatic introductions, but Sabatt would be surprised if that continued for more than a few more hours.

As if to punctuate that thought, Kestral groaned. "What's really frustrating is that she's actually being _nice_. Maybe I'd feel better if she kicked a puppy or something."

"I doubt that, somehow." Then she paused. A shadow. On the wall of the corridor, cast by someone just around the corner, moving toward them. But no footsteps. Someone walking normally on this floor would make a sound.

She bolted forward, launching herself toward the corner, wasting not a moment. The shadow turned and fled. There. Proof. Within a few seconds she was around the bend herself, cane grasped in hand. She didn't bother alerting Kestral – the bandit would figure it out soon enough.

This particular passageway led out onto the battlements; normally, the doors would be barred, but today they were flung open, leaving a clear escape route for their quarry. Sabatt groaned inwardly and pressed forward, ignoring the sharp sting in her leg. Then, in moments, out, into the sunlight. She looked left and right. Stone parapets. The city, down the hill. A guard, prone and unmoving. And a man in beige robes starting up the ladder to the roof.

She deftly flicked the release mechanism on her swordstick, drawing it in one fluid motion. One brisk swipe sliced into the fabric of his belt. "Ahem."

The stranger paused and shifted to look down at her quizzically. "Yes?" he said dryly, Janubian accent evident even in the single word.

She briefly considered addressing him in Janubian, but decided not to stoop. "Please be as good as to explain yourself."

"_Tabaan_." He came back down the ladder, cautious of her blade. She moved it so that the tip was a respectable distance from his throat. "May I point out that my intentions are entirely peaceful?"

Boots clattered behind her. Kestral. "_Sure._ Knocking out our guards is _totally_ peaceful, not to mention attempting to kill His High –"

"I am not here to assassinate Prince Ammar. Quite the opposite." He began to reach for his belt, and Sabatt moved the blade closer. His lip quirked, and he spread his palm. "Fear not, _khawaaja_. I am wise enough not to attempt an engagement when the odds are not in my favour."

Sabatt shrugged her permission, lowering her sword slightly, and he unsheathed a dagger. The moment she saw the crest upon it, she almost rolled her eyes. Of course.

"Well," grumbled Kestral. "Why didn't you just _say_ you were one of the Raiders?"

"I was as unaware of your intentions as you were of mine." He nodded to Kestral. "Until you made your hasty accusation, _madaam_. That made it quite simple."

Sabatt exchanged a glance with Kestral, then lowered her sword. She did not trust him, precisely, but she was at least confident that they were in no imminent danger. "Your name, sir? If giving it is not against some byzantine rule of the Raiders, naturally."

"Savas al-Jumajir," he said calmly. "May I know yours?"

"Kestral of Gallos." Kestral jerked a thumb at herself, then at Sabatt. "Crimson Sabatt."

She did not flinch – she'd developed enough control of herself to avoid that. But she did give Kestral a look: there was, after all, a reason why she was not in her usual garb. Savas visibly stiffened, looking very pointedly past her head. "I see."

"Oh, for crying out loud, she's not gonna stab ya." Savas looked unconvinced by Kestral's assurances, but resheathed his dagger. The small woman nodded and crossed her arms. "So your idea of protecting your ruler is to sneak around a strange castle bopping the guards without checking with the owners first?"

"My apologies." Savas still would not make eye contact with her, Sabatt noted. She was not surprised. Janub was possibly the only nation it would always be dangerous for her to set foot in, thanks to her actions under the Red Prince: the inhabitants were even less forgiving than Narlindir. "I contemplated liaising with your security forces, but my past experience in these matters has led me to believe that most castle authorities are not friendly to my kind."

"Hey." Kestral gave a lopsided grin. "If you wanna stab the guy trying to kill Princey, I'll give you free rein."

Savas looked confused, then gave Sabatt an interrogative glance. She chuckled. While the rogue's method of expression was less than sophisticated, she wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment. "In other words, Savas al-Jumajir, the enemy of our enemy is our friend. I believe you may be able to assist us."

…

"This is driving me nuts." Marcus ran a hand through his hair, tilting his chair back. The Rook and Pony was noiser than usual, thanks to all the visitors in town; he and Thordal had hidden themselves away at a corner table. "No matter how many security measures Lani and I set up, I'm still having nightmares about a political assassination on our doorstep."

Thordal shrugged, making a face. "I know. But Maria's on it. Rare's the mystery that lass can't solve."

Marcus' eyebrows shot up. "Not comforting."

"Why not, lad?"

"Because I don't trust her an inch," he said dryly, taking a sip from his tankard.

Thordal glanced ruefully at his own empty glass, then gestured to the bartender. He wasn't angry, surprisingly even to himself. "And again, why not?"

Marcus blinked. "You do realise that she manipulated me for all I was worth and tried to kill both me and my wife on several occasions?"

"Years ago. Water under the bridge." Thordal stroked his beard with a nod of thanks to the girl who filled his glass. "She's more than proved herself since then."

The younger knight snorted, settling back into the sparse wooden chair. "Not enough."

"So what does it take?"

"It takes sincerity. She's changed because she wants something, not because she knows it's the right thing."

Thordal leaned forward. "Maria regrets almost every second of the past ten years of her life. The least you could do is let her try to atone."

Marcus laughed bitterly. "Fallen for her hook, line, and sinker, haven't you?"

"Do you think I didn't hate her just as much as you do?" Thordal's voice was dangerously raised. He glanced around awkwardly as heads turned, then lowered it. "Marcus, Crimson Sabatt was a monster she created, a mask she wore."

"And she's worn it so long it's part of –"

"Shut up and let me finish. She betrayed my people; she all but destroyed my homeland. Remember when I nearly wrecked Alandra's best set of crockery when you suggested we should work together?"

Marcus nodded, fingers twisting absently around the handle of the metal tankard. "Yeah."

"I learned to trust her."

"Became infatuated with her, you mean."

"She was _not _trying to manipulate me. She was and is sincere."

"You can't know that."

"I can." Thordal took a deep breath. "Lad, sometimes you've got to actually trust someone before they'll show their true colours. You need to take the first step."

"And what if they aren't worthy of it?"

Thordal leaned back, shaking his head. "You have serious trust issues."

"What," Marcus said deliberately, "is that supposed to mean?"

"Remember that little party with the Eastern Raiders? And how you and Kes were at daggers drawn?"

"She deserved that."

"She didn't. She made one mistake, and you called her a murderer in front of Queen and country!"

Marcus' eyes sunk down to the table, fingers rapping softly against the edge. "I apologised for that," he said evenly.

"Did you mean it?"

Blue eyes snapped up. "Now, wait just a minute. If you're trying to compare me to that weasel –"

"_That weasel _effectively gave her life up for the Darion Empire. The fact she survived doesn't make the gesture any less noble. No one expected you to blow up a bridge after you defected. How'd you like to be blamed for that mess for the rest of your life?"

Marcus remained silent.

"Do you trust _me_?" Thordal said quietly.

"Yes."

"But you didn't initially."

"Of course not! You're from Narlind. It was instinctive."

"And when did you start to trust me?"

"When I found out you weren't actually involved in any of the raids on Challia." Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Where are you going with this?"

"So you only trust someone if they haven't actually done anything wrong. Ever. In their entire life."

Marcus exhaled. "Come on, that's ridiculous."

"Is it? Sounds mighty accurate to me."

"We've all done _something _wrong. It would be insane for me to hold grudges over _everything_."

"Yet you do." Thordal folded his arms on the table. "Well, perhaps not everything, but if someone ever does anything big and wrong and stupid, you don't give them a chance. You hold it against them forever. Does the concept of repentance mean anything to you at all?"

Marcus' face twisted. If Thordal hadn't known better, he would have thought that for a second he'd chewed his lip. "Leopards don't change their spots, Thordal."

"Boy, you and I both know that's not true."

"It has to be. Because, if it's not –" Marcus closed his eyes, clenching his hand into a fist. "It works both ways."

Thordal took a swig of mead, studying the eddies in the yellow liquid as it settled. "So," he murmured. "You hold the world to an unchanging black and white morality, not allowing black to fade, because you're scared that white will be tarnished?"

"Thordal, now's not really a good time to wax poetic."

"But I'm right, aren't I?" The Viking looked up. "You won't allow yourself to think someone bad could become good because it means that the reverse could happen."

Marcus' eyes drifted from Thordal's face, looking somewhere out over his shoulder. "Perhaps." His fingers drummed the table again, louder and firmer. "Yeah, I suppose."

"And it scares you."

"Yeah." It wasn't a word – more like a long, drawn out sigh. "It does. Particularly since …"

"Hakim," Thordal finished for him, looking back down at his cup with a faint nod. "Yes. But he's just made a decision for his country, lad. He's got far more responsibility than any of us."

"He's betrayed Kes."

"We don't know the whole story. Besides." Thordal smiled crookedly. "You're being remarkably defensive of Kestie for someone who earlier thought she deserved a bawling-out."

Marcus eyed him balefully. "Kes is like my little sister. I'm _allowed _to simultaneously yell at her and love her to bits."

"Aww. I'll tell her you said that."

"You dare and I'll gut you like a fish."

"I'd like to see you try."

Marcus' face relaxed, and he chuckled, resting his chin on his fist. "We'll have to set a date. How late is it?"

Thordal glanced out the window. The stars were growing brighter in Vestholm's sky. "Pretty late, I reckon. Come on. I don't think Alandra would appreciate me keeping you late at the Rook and Pony."

Marcus grimaced. "No, she wouldn't."

"Exactly." Thordal nodded to the barmaid with a grin, passed her enough coins to amply cover that evening's bill, then stepped out into the cool night air. Marcus was not far behind him.

"Thordal," Marcus said quietly as they turned down the road towards Castle Vestholm.

"Yes?"

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't speak to anyone about the content of our discussion just now. Especially Alandra."

"Not a problem." Thordal looked up, studying one of the clouds passing overheard. "Just – just give Maria a chance, Marcus. She's really quite sincere about her wish to reform, so cut the silly lass a little slack."

He looked down at the younger man, who smiled weakly. "I suppose I can manage that."


	7. In Which Thordal Calls Alandra Fat

Marcus lifted the practice sword in one hand and twirled it experimentally. The cold grey dawn bit through his shirt. It felt like autumn now, all right: soon, he'd be doing his morning workout in the dark.

He took a few sharp breaths – then lunged. Again and again he struck the training dummy, ducking as its metal arm swiped back and forth. The clatter and crash rang through the tilt yard and filled his ears. Unfortunately, it was not enough to drown out his thoughts.

It would be an exaggeration to say that Marcus had had a sleepless night, but it had certainly been disturbed. Thordal's words had haunted him long after they'd been spoken, as had the nagging suspicion that the elder man was right. Now, in the frozen clarity of the morn, the suspicion had turned to certainty. Yes, Marcus _did_ withhold well-deserved forgiveness: he'd clung illogically to many a grudge over the years, even as he expected others to excuse his own misdeeds, purely out of a crazy boyish fear. So often he'd forgotten all the good and held on to the bad, and it was hurting all involved. He was an idiot.

"You," he told himself sternly, the reprimand coming in gasps as he pummelled his artificial opponent, "need to grow up."

"I think we all do."

Marcus halted, panting, refusing for the moment to look around. He hadn't been expecting to hear that particular voice. "Good morning, Your Highness," he responded coldly.

For a few moments, Hakim was silent; Marcus heard him step behind him, towards the weapons racks. "Would you object to a sparring partner?"

"No." Marcus turned around, resting the point of his sword against the dirt. The Prince looked tired. Were Alandra there, she would almost certainly be ordering him back to bed. But then, Marcus wasn't exactly feeling wonderful himself, so it wouldn't affect an engagement. More worrying was the thick bandage wrapped about Hakim's right hand. He'd noticed it the previous evening, and it was still firmly in place. "Though I'm not sure how chivalrous it is to fight a man without the use of one of his limbs."

Hakim shrugged, selecting one of the blunt shortswords from the rack against the building. "I can use my left hand."

"Hardly fair, unless I use mine too."

"Sounds sensible." Hakim stepped into the open space, blade held in his uninjured hand. "I am ready."

"Good." Marcus tossed his sword into his left hand, then paused. "Try not to make me bleed. I need to wear this shirt today."

A very faint smile flickered on the Prince's face. "I shall try to avoid it."

Then they began. Within half a minute it was clear that the Janubian was far from on form; still, even a weary and left-handed Hakim was a force to be reckoned with, and Marcus could not afford to relax his guard. The sword hilt felt strange in his off hand, and it was all he could do to parry each forceful strike.

Hakim brought his sword down, and Marcus ducked the blow, dashing beneath his arm. For a split-second, he was behind his opponent, and he took the opportunity, slapping the flat of the blade briskly against his arm. "Could've killed you there."

"I am aware," Hakim replied ruefully, wiping his brow with his sleeve. "Thank you from refraining."

"You're welcome." Marcus leaned on his sword, catching his breath. "Care for more?"

"No, thank you." The older man gave a brief, tight smile. "It might be better to schedule a rematch for when the odds are a little fairer."

"Fine by me." Marcus hesitated for a second, then offered his left hand. Hakim shook it firmly, an odd expression on his face.

"Do you still hate me?" he asked quietly.

"Hate? Nah." Marcus paused and rubbed the back of his neck. "Mad at, definitely."

Hakim gave a brief grimace and walked over to the weapons rack. "With every right," he said, returning his sword to its proper place. "I have behaved abominably to all of you these past years, and I understand that it's rather presumptuous to beg forgiveness."

A thousand vitriolic comments shot through Marcus' brain, and he took a deep breath, replaying Thordal's words in his mind. _A chance. He deserves that, at least. _"I can understand – I can understand why you did it. I can't _like_ it, but …" He shrugged hopelessly, remembering another not-so-dissimilar conversation. So long ago now. "You did the wrong thing for all the right reasons."

Hakim nodded silently, his back still turned. Marcus grimaced. "But there are some things I can't forgive. You know that, right?"

"Yes," the elder man responded, very, very quietly. "I know." Then he turned, expression neutral. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

…

"Hey, lad."

"Hey." Marcus glanced over his shoulder at Thordal, grinning. "Good morning and all that."

"Seconded." Thordal leaned on the fence next to him, his beard dangling down past the top beam. He cleared his throat gruffly. "I'm sorry, Marcus. I was a bit rough on you last night."

"It's fine. You were right." Marcus shrugged carelessly. After his semi-reconciliation with Hakim, they'd broken into the kitchen and helped themselves to breakfast, and it had been rather nice to _not_ be at one another's throats. Missus Perkins hadn't been particularly impressed though. "On a slightly connected note, don't tell Cook where I am. She's out for blood."

"Duly noted." Thordal looked out across the small side paddock and chuckled. Alandra was leading her ex-mount, Daria, in tight circles, and the heavily pregnant mare was not looking impressed. "What's all the exercise for?"

"Well, it's not like Daria can run around in there – and Lani refuses to send her back down to the main paddocks since she wants to keep an eye on her."

"Fair enough." Thordal shifted and crossed his arms atop the fence. "When's she due?"

"Most of the stablehands agree sometime in the next fortnight."

Thordal gave a low, gruff laugh. "I wasn't talking about the horse, kid."

Marcus frowned, puzzled. "So what –" Then he worked it out, and felt his jaw slacken, momentarily bereft of speech. "N-no," he managed to choke. "No, she's not – Lani's not –"

"What I wouldn't give for a picture of your face right now, boy." Thordal guffawed. "Looks jolly like it to me."

Marcus' mind was numb. Oh, he was an idiot. Yes, she had to be. Of _course_ she was. Alandra was pregnant.

He was going to be a dad.

The moment that thought popped into his brain, he gave a brief, incoherent squawk, and Thordal promptly lost any composure he had. "Congratulations, kid," he said between bursts of laughter. "Enjoy your freedom while you've got it."

"Uh." Marcus felt a stupid grin spread across his face, and an equally stupid chuckle escape his lips. "How could I not notice that?!"

"Love is blind. Especially to weight gain." Thordal clapped him on the shoulder, then turned and headed back to the courtyard before Marcus could process his final sentence.

…

Aminah crept up to the library door, as stealthily as she could. Slowly, carefully, she wrapped her fingers around the sharp wooden edge and leaned around. Lady Sabatt was on the sofa, reading a dark brown book. Aminah studied her face intently. Mother had said they were called scars, and she did not doubt it – but anyone else she'd ever seen only had one or two. Lady Sabatt, frankly, was being greedy.

She stepped into the centre of the room and clasped her hands behind her back, waiting expectantly. But Lady Sabatt did not look up. Instead, she turned the page with a soft swish. "Draw a picture. It will last longer."

Aminah was undaunted. "What happened to your face?"

Lady Sabatt lowered her book and watched her for a second. Clearly, she was trying to work something out, but Aminah was not sure what. "I was injured in an explosion."

"Did it hurt?"

"Yes."

Aminah tilted her head sideways, biting her lip in pity. A kitty had scratched her face a few months earlier, and if that had hurt – "Why were you in the 'plosion? Were you –" She tried to remember what it was that Mother kept telling her off for being. "– careless?"

Lady Sabatt gave a low chuckle and shook her head. "No." She closed the book, apparently without realising it. "It was very definitely on purpose, though I could have done without the scars."

"Why was it on purpose?" Aminah asked, edging closer to the sofa.

"You ask a lot of questions."

"You don't give good answers," she replied promptly, and Lady Sabatt raised her eyebrow. Aminah giggled.

"What?" Sabatt inquired, smiling.

"You look like my uncle when you do that."

"Oh dear," Sabatt murmured, then switched back to her normal tone. "Do you truly wish to know the reason for my injuries?"

Aminah nodded cheerfully and clambered up onto the far end of the sofa. Sabatt placed her hands upon her book. "Westerlin was being invaded, and the enemy army was coming toward Vestholm. They could be stopped if the main bridge between here and the northeast coast was destroyed. So I blew them up."

"And you got hurt?"

"Yes," she responded wryly. "I was a little too close, shall we say. Were it not for your uncle, I would not be sitting here now."

Aminah stared up at her, awed. It was the stuff of a story, and the thought that it could happen in real life was utterly fascinating. "You're a hero," she said, eyes wide.

For a split-second, Lady Sabatt looked startled, but then she shrugged. "There are quite a few who wouldn't agree with your assessment, Aminah."

"Like who?" Aminah asked crossly, determining to track them down and give them a good scolding.

"Like your uncle, for instance."

"You're wrong!" Aminah was greatly affronted.

"Am I?" Lady Sabatt was clearly trying not to laugh – added salt to Aminah's wounds. She glared at her.

"Yes! He said you were his friend, and he wouldn't say that if you weren't nice and smart and a hero. And he wouldn't have saved you, either!"

"Clearly your uncle has high standards," Sabatt answered dryly.

Aminah furrowed her brow. "I'm not sure. I don't think I like Princess Saraya."

"Neither do I." Lady Sabatt's voice was brutally frank. She opened her book again, flicked through it briskly, then showed Aminah a painting of fields, forest, and a stone bridge. "There. That's the bridge I destroyed."

Aminah crawled across the sofa for a better look, settling down comfortably next to Lady Sabatt, eyeing the picture. "It's not very big."

Lady Sabatt eyed her sideways – then tickled her.

Aminah squealed and tried to retaliate, but Sabatt struck again. She flopped into the woman's lap, giggling. "Stoppit."

"If you insist." Lady Sabatt propped her back up into a sitting position and smoothed down her mussed-up hair. "There you go. Best go find your mother, before she starts to worry."

Aminah slipped off the sofa – then stopped as she looked up at the doorway. The big tall man with the red beard was leaning on the frame, arms crossed, watching them with the same funny smile that her father always gave her mother. He said something in that silly-sounding language, and she responded, then nudged Aminah's shoulder. "Lord Thordal will help you find your mother, if you like."

The Janubian girl was not sure that she liked the scary tall man, but she liked walking around the castle alone even less. "Okay." She reached up to take his hand, and he enveloped it in his.

...

"I think I might have to steal him, y'know." Lady Kestral giggled, bouncing Temel up and down in her lap. The little boy's grin was ridiculously wide. "He's simply too cute for me to allow you to take him away."

Farihah laughed herself, leaning back into the cushions of the living room sofa. "I'm afraid my husband might have something to say about that."

"Hmm. I guess he would. Well, you could always all stay here in – oww." Kestral gently removed Temel's fingers from her curls. "Those are attached to my head, kiddo."

"A lesson he has yet to learn."

"Maybe he'll get it after I go bald."

Fari's smile broadened. Life in Juahar, while wonderful, was sadly devoid of female company amongst those of rank. It was lovely to be able to simply chat; even nicer to have Temel temporarily in the care of another. Motherhood, much as she adored it, was surprisingly tiring. "Perhaps."

"So, Temel." Kestral placed her hands on his shoulders, giving him a look of mock seriousness. He returned it calmly. "Would you like to stay here with me?"

Temel hesitated, then shook his head briskly. Kestral shrugged ruefully. "Well, at least he considered it."

"He has a sense of duty," Farihah said, amused. "He has obligations in Janub, you know."

"Such as generally being cute? Surely he can do that here."

"Not in the same charming way." Farihah chuckled, but couldn't quite stop a sigh. Temel _did_ have obligations, potentially, and it was terrifying.

Kestral hugged Temel against her. "Royalty comes with far too much responsibility, if you ask me. What exactly does a toddler have to _do_, anyway?"

"At present, merely survive."

Kestral looked at her over Temel's head, eyes widening. "What do you mean? You don't think he's a _target_?"

For a split-second, Farihah wondered if she had gone too far – if confiding in Lady Kestral was a wise decision. But Ammar trusted the Knights of Darion, and that endorsement, as far as she was concerned, was worth its weight in gold. "We fear so. After all, if my brother is in danger, then it stands to reason that his heir –"

"Temel's his heir?" The female Knight blinked. "Yikes. But yeah, he's his closest male relative now, isn't he?"

"By blood, yes." Farihah briefly wished that al-Awan's monarchy was not so strictly patriarchal. Not because that would place her next in line – far from it – but because their branch of the family would have been passed over for the succession in the days of Dario.

"What about after him?"

Farihah pursed her lips thoughtfully. "A distant cousin in Husran, unfortunately. Hardly a suspect, since he is ninety-three. As far as we are aware, he has no living descendants."

Kestral grimaced. "Not the most secure succession."

"Indeed; hence our relief that Ammar is finally settling." Fari gave a lopsided smile. "That sounds terribly callous, does it not? But a small part of our reason for being pleased, I should say."

Kestral kissed Temel's forehead, momentarily hiding her face from Farihah's view. "Sounds much better, yeah."

"Great." Lord Marcus' voice from the doorway, exasperated and weary. "Whatever it is you're talking about. 'Cause we really need some decent news right now."

Farihah looked up sharply, then covered her mouth with both hands, desperately trying to conceal giggles. The Knight of Darion was sodden from his head to his boots, with a strand of riverweed caught in his hair completing the effect. Kestral almost exploded, making Temel jump out of his skin. "Lackbeard, what in Vestholm did you do this time?"

"My good deed for the day, actually," was the rather sulky response. "With respect, Princess Farihah, have someone teach your brother to swim, will you?"

Suddenly, it was no longer funny. "What happened?" she asked, heart in her throat.

Marcus entered the room properly, glancing behind him with crossed arms. Ammar emerged in a similar state to the younger man, clothes dripping, a definite flush of embarrassment visible on his face. "Ah. I may have slipped."

"Into the river," Jabir said wryly, hovering behind him.

"At the widest, deepest, fastest-flowing point." Now Doruk stepped in, expression rueful. "Perhaps the assassin should give up – he is doing quite well on his own."

"That's not the end of it." Marcus almost sat on one of the lounge chairs, then glanced down at his wet clothing and apparently thought better of it. "Well, actually, it _was_ the end of it, but it wasn't the beginning." He gestured carelessly at Ammar and Jabir. "First those two almost got themselves run down by a fish cart, of all things. Then His Highness narrowly avoided getting a roofing tile dropped on his head, then the – oh, it was ridiculous. If we didn't already know something's up, I'd think His Highness here was the most accident prone man in existence."

Ammar raised both eyebrows. "I shall try and take that as a compliment."

"If y'like." Marcus plucked the weed from his hair and examined it with detached curiosity. "Kes, next time we've got diplomatic visitors, _you_ give the –"

He stopped as Princess Saraya glided through the doorway. "Good afternoon, everyone! How was – oh!"

"Not," groaned Marcus, "good."

"Oh dear." Saraya looked between the two waterlogged men pityingly. "Do I wish to know?"

Kestral snorted. "Probably not. Your opinion, Temel?"

The small child looked solemnly up into her face, then, to Farihah's surprise, beamed broadly. "Keh-toll."

Farihah gasped, delighted. Kestral apparently did not understand the significance of the outburst, for she simply chuckled and kissed the top of his head. "Uh-huh."

"Oh, that is not fair," Doruk blurted. "Ammar and I have been trying to teach him our names for _weeks_."

Kestral smirked. "But you like me better, don't you, cutie?"

"Keh-toll," Temel repeated in firm confirmation, clutching a fistful of her hair.

Saraya giggled. "How adorable! I take it he does not speak much?"

Jabir nodded, glancing at his wife with a grin. "That is only about the third word we have heard him say, I believe."

"Fourth," Farihah corrected, unable to steady her own smile. "Lady Kestral, you have been highly honoured. He rarely takes well to strangers."

"Aww. Thanks, little buddy."

Saraya seated herself next to Temel and Kestral and patted the boy's shoulder. He blinked up at her with what Farihah recognised as his puzzled expression. "Hello, sweetheart," she cooed. "Ammar, he looks very like you, does he not?"

"Yes," Ammar responded, voice oddly flat. "He does. Excuse me." Farihah looked up, but her brother was already halfway out the door.

"Yeah, I'll go get changed as well." Marcus gave a brief wave, moving towards the door. "See you all at dinner."

…

Jabir held his sleeping son closely against his chest, rubbing his back gently. For a moment, he was tempted to just nod off himself – to curl up on the sofa with Temel and forget the entire horrible afternoon. "Farihah," he murmured. "Is Aminah asleep?"

"I think so." His wife looked closely at their little girl's face. "Yes."

"Good." He blew out a sigh. "You heard what Lord Marcus said."

She bit her lip, curling up next to him. "Yes. The cart. But maybe it was an acci –"

"And maybe a glass got smashed into my soup by accident," he snapped, instantly regretting it as she flinched. "I'm sorry," he murmured after a moment.

"It's all right," she responded softly, squeezing his hand. "Jabir – I'm frightened."

_So am I_. But no, he could not say that out loud. There was nothing he could do, not really. Any promise would be a lie. So he forced himself to smile, slipping his free arm around her and holding both wife and son as if he would never let go. "Whatever happens," he whispered, "it will be for the best. Somehow."

"Let us hope so."

The doubt in her voice stung a little, though it was a worry he shared, and he could think of nothing to say. Fortunately, he was saved by a soft knock.

"Come in."

Doruk peeked around the edge of the door. "Are the children asleep?" he stage-whispered.

"Yes." Jabir sat up straight, supporting Temel carefully. The boy slumped against his shoulder, his lids still tightly shut.

"Good." Doruk wandered in and leaned against the wall, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "What a day."

Farihah shivered. "Please don't talk about it, Doruk."

"Very well." Doruk crossed his arms and made a face. "So, then. What do you think of Ammar's chosen bride, now that we've had the chance to form an opinion?"

"Umm." Jabir had deliberately not voiced his own thoughts on the matter, and it was difficult to quickly construct a response both truthful and respectful. "She's … young."

"And devoid of any substantial mental capacity." Doruk did an impersonation of Ammar's usual raised eyebrow.

"I suppose that is correct." Jabir shifted a little. "But if Ammar loves her –"

"He doesn't."

Farihah's voice was quiet, but firm. Jabir twisted, looking down at her blankly. "Why do you say that?"

"You cannot see?" Fari took a deep breath. "I thought, at first, that he was simply being Ammar – but there is no warmth in the way he addresses her, quite the reverse. And he never speaks of or to her unless he must. This afternoon it was almost as if he was running away from her."

Jabir looked across at his brother, pressing his lips together. He was not sure what to think. Farihah was right; he hadn't seen it himself, but now that she pointed it out it was as plain as an oasis, and just as unexpected. Political marriages were not unusual in their class, but for some reason he had expected Ammar to escape that particular royal trap. After all, Ghalib had married for love, and he flattered himself that Farihah had also.

"Oh," Doruk muttered. "That complicates things."

"We cannot blame him." Jabir took a long breath. "It is his decision, and I think he's in a position where it is at least forgiveable."

"Then I shall not." Doruk sighed. "I'll let you tuck Temel in."

…

Hakim rapped on the door, very softly. No response. Good. So he swung the door open, stepped through, closed it behind him, and took a deep breath. The chart room had not changed. A million memories of hours spent here rushed back painfully: Kestral and Marcus hurling paper darts at one another, Alandra scolding them for wasting paper, Sabatt trying to explain the rules of chess to Thordal …

It was foolish, he told himself, to be emotionally attached to a room, and yet more foolish to want to say goodbye. But, try as he might, he couldn't help it.

A knock. Behind him. He tensed. "Yes?"

The door creaked open a crack. "I saw you come in." Doruk entered quietly, much as he had. "Are you all right?"

"I am unhurt." A dousing in Vestholm's river was more embarrassing than potentially fatal, and the actual attacks were slightly pathetic. Certainly nothing to frighten him any more than he already was.

Doruk nodded, flopping into one of the chairs around the table. It looked strange. A smile cracked across his face. "I'd give a monkey for a picture of Lord Marcus pulling you out of the river. That'll go down in legend."

"Oh, shut up." Hakim seated himself and tilted the chair back, staring up at the familiar ceiling. "Tell anyone, and I'll proclaim the crab incident."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me." Hakim lowered his chair back to a safer position and rapped his fingers against the table. "Did you wish to discuss something, or did you just follow me in order to mock my watery escapade?"

"Do you love Princess Saraya?"

Hakim flinched. "That is a very direct question."

"And one that needs to be answered."

He hugged his chest, refusing to meet Doruk's eyes. Lying was impossible. "I do not."

"I figured." Doruk huffed. "Ammar, you don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do."

"Don't be ridiculous." Doruk stood and began to pace; his boots clicked roughly against the cobbles. "We've both seen the consequences of loveless political matches. An heir isn't _that_ urgent a requirement."

Hakim wished for a moment that he could crawl under the table. Temel's methods of avoiding confrontation were a vast improvement upon normal dignified conduct. "I know what could result. But it is my duty, and if I do not show the Raiders that I am willing to do my duty …"

"So you'll condemn yourself to a lifetime of misery in order to impress a few brigands."

"You know it's not as simple as that."

Doruk halted and rested his hand against the mantle, staring down into the empty fireplace. "Perhaps not, on the surface. But that's what it comes down to. Marry, by all means, but not Saraya. Wait a while. Find someone you care for."

Hakim bit his lip – an instinctive, ridiculously childish motion. "Do you know what it's like to have happiness at your fingertips and hurl it away?"

"Yes." A simple, unexpected response. "I do. I know what it is to love, and I know even better what it is to lose that joy. But being deprived of one woman is not a reason to torture yourself forevermore."

Hakim shook his head, studying the carvings along the table's edge. "You misunderstand. I have given my word to Princess Saraya, and I cannot withdraw my hand now. Were I to do so –" He fingered his beard absentmindedly. The potential consequences were the stuff of nightmares for any monarch. Sahir al-Awan could not afford to offend an empire ten times her size, not even with Westerlin as an ally, for Darion's forces would be forced to remain neutral should it come to war. Even if they could avoid war, Janub as a whole relied on Hidun and neighbouring Basa for half its trade. But he had rehearsed these thoughts a thousand times already. "You can imagine, I'm sure."

"Hmm. I'll admit I can't see the girl being very forgiving." Doruk exhaled slowly. "But my opinion does not change. Believe me, the last thing I want to see is you shackled to that brainless girl for the next fifty years."

"Take comfort. Maybe the assassin will reach me first."

"Your sense of humour is even worse than mine." Doruk turned. "Consider what I have said. Please."

"I fear that will not help."

A dry smile crept across the other man's face. "It was worth a try."


	8. In Which Marcus Does The Unthinkable

Hakim opened his eyes.

True, nocturnal noises throughout Castle Vestholm weren't an unusual occurrence. Sound travelled through the stone halls very easily, and there were usually several servants up even at the oddest hours of the night. But they never sounded this close.

He lay still for a moment, listening intently. Whispers. Right outside his room. He bolted to his feet, yanked on his robe, sprinted for the door, and threw it open.

Maria stood in the hall, arms crossed, eyebrows faintly raised. More dramatically, a vaguely familiar figure had another man pinned up against the wall. _Ah. _

"Good morning, southerner," Maria said blandly, in Janubian. "I should have known that you would wake up."

"Do I _want_ to know what is going on?" There seemed to be no immediate threat, yet his heart was still pounding like mad.

Maria nodded towards the two men. "Savas here –" As she spoke, Hakim recognised him with a start. "– was on surveillance duty. I came out for the changing of the guard, so to speak, and was just in time to witness him apprehending this gentleman."

"He was attempting to pick your lock, Your Highness," Savas said smoothly. "I suspected you might disapprove."

Hakim was not sure which was more disturbing – the idea of someone trying to pick his lock, or the fact that a near-stranger had been guarding his door. He cleared his throat. "I do indeed. I take it from this co-operation with Lady Sabatt that you are not intending to murder me yourself?"

Savas smirked. "I _did_ explain, Your Highness. You simply refused to listen."

Maria echoed the look, much to Hakim's irritation. "He does that."

The door just down the hall clicked open, and Jabir stepped out, half-asleep but wary. "Ammar? What's going – _you_?!"

The captive flinched, but did not respond. Maria raised an eyebrow. "You recognise him?"

"Yes," Jabir answered, somewhat shakily. "His name is Qutaibah al-Tamerrast. He was a servant in our home until last year. I dismissed him for theft."

"I see." Savas adjusted his grip on Qutaibah's arm – unnecessary, really, as the man wasn't making any attempt to escape. He was simply giving Jabir a sullen glare. "But I'm assuming that you weren't breaking into His Highness' room to steal a few trinkets. Is that right?"

"You won't get anything out of him," Jabir interrupted.

"Won't we?" Maria lifted both brows. "You'll find I can be most persuasive."

"I doubt you're skilled enough to force a dumb man to talk," Jabir said dryly. "He has no tongue. My predecessor in Juahar was a little excessive in some of his disciplinary measures."

Qutaibah confirmed the assertion by displaying the organ in question – or lack thereof – and Hakim instinctively looked away. "As I see. But there are other measures of communication."

"He is illiterate, also." Jabir rubbed his face wearily with both hands. "A well chosen instrument. He would be hard pressed to confess even if he wished."

"Hmm." Maria looked more than slightly chagrined; were Hakim's life not so immediately concerned, he would have derived significant amusement from her annoyance. "Still. If he is working with the assassin, he can still identify his employer." She nodded to Savas. "But for now, he'll be safer in the castle dungeon. Savas, if you will?"

The Desert Raider inclined his head, and marched Qutaibah off down the hall without hesitation. Maria bowed elegantly to the remaining men, then retreated around the corner. Hakim didn't believe for a second that she had gone to bed. It was oddly comforting. If a little disconcerting.

"He'll be the one who put the glass into the soup, then," Jabir muttered. "A dozen new servants – can't expect the kitchen staff to recognise who doesn't belong. He could have gotten in easily."

Hakim nodded. "And who knows which of the other attempts he was involved in." He yawned involuntarily. "Progress, I suppose. Is Farihah awake too?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Good. Don't tell her tonight."

Jabir grimaced. "Obviously. She wouldn't sleep a wink if she knew."

"Will you?"

"Will _you_?"

Hakim shrugged. He was caught between an impulse to collapse groggily back onto his pillow and a desire to stay alert forevermore – or at least until the threat was over. "I'll try. There's no sense in alerting the Knights until dawn."

"I have a feeling Lady Sabatt might take matters into her own hands in that regard." Jabir crossed his arms, eyeing Hakim sideways. "Do you trust her?"

"Yes." The speed and certainty with which he said it surprised him as much as the answer itself.

Jabir grimaced and turned back towards his door. "Your decision, I suppose. I best go back to bed before Farihah hears us."

"Very well. Good night."

"Good _morning_," Jabir corrected, with a grin and a shrug.

…

Marcus had spent the previous day on a cloud of happiness. He'd driven everyone nuts whistling and grinning. Especially Athos – the stallion had taken exception to his rendition of the Empire's national anthem and had bitten him on the arm. But, finally, the evening had come, he'd been alone with Alandra, and he'd had a chance to voice the thoughts that had been bubbling up in him all day.

Except he hadn't. Because, suddenly, a question had occurred: a very important question, to which he could form no satisfactory answer.

Why hadn't Lani told him?

There was no way in the world he'd be _upset_ about becoming a father, so she couldn't possibly be thinking he would. And she wasn't the sort to hide it from him just for a laugh. So there had to be a serious reason for her to keep her pregnancy from him. What if there was something wrong?

Unable to squash the alarming thought, he'd brushed off her inquiries about his suddenly troubled expression and had gone to bed. But the idea had kept him awake half the night. If there was something badly wrong, it wouldn't be unlike Alandra to try to protect him from it. The more he considered it, the more convinced he became. The more upset. The more scared.

By mid-morning, he hadn't been able to take it any longer, and had gone for a walk. Vestholm's hustle and bustle wasn't helping his state of mind. He dodged a passing chicken and ducked a street sign, hoping he didn't look like he was brooding.

Whatever it was that was the problem, he desperately wanted to know. He wasn't a kid that needed to be shielded – he was a grown man, a knight, and a husband. He deserved to know; not only that, but it wasn't fair on Lani for her to suffer on her own. He'd have to ask her. There was no help for it.

"Ow!"

Marcus came to an abrupt halt, tugging a strand of hair free from his shoulder plates. Again. This was getting ridiculous.

And, right then, he knew what he wanted to do.

…

Aminah broke into a trot down the hall. Uncle Ammar was _finally _up, and she had something very important to say to him. The problem was that he walked far too fast. "Uncle!"

He paused and turned, smiling down at her. "Good morning."

She did her best to raise her eyebrow, just like Lady Sabatt. "It's afternoon, actually."

"Oh. My mistake." He lifted her up and balanced her on his hip, and she placed her arms around his neck. "How are you, Aminah?"

"A bit tired," she responded, yawning. She'd heard funny noises that had woken her up, and hadn't been able to get to sleep for _ages _afterwards.

"Already? At this time of day?" Her uncle smirked a little, shifting his hold. "Do you want to go and have a nap?"

She screwed up her nose. "Naps are for babies like Temel."

"Hmm. Pity." He yawned too, blinking rapidly. "I'd been thinking about having one myself."

"Did you hear the funny noises too?"

He didn't answer for a couple of seconds. "Yes."

"Well," she said consideringly. "I suppose you could get away with having a nap without looking like a baby."

"Could I?"

"Yes. You don't have to prove anything, you see."

He laughed. "Thank you. I think."

"You're welcome." She cocked her head to one side. "There is something very important I want to discuss, Uncle."

"Very well." He looked at her attentively. "Pray begin."

She took a deep breath, launching directly into her topic. "I don't think you ought to marry Princess Saraya."

Uncle Ammar flinched, an odd look on his face. "Why not?"

"Because I don't like her." She couldn't say the next sentence without breaking into an enormous smile. "I think," she continued coyly, "that you ought to marry Lady Sabatt."

He looked rather shocked, and for a couple of seconds she thought he had forgotten how to speak. "Aminah," he stammered eventually. "I don't think that's a terribly good idea."

She pouted. "Why not? She'd make a nice aunty. And you said she was your friend."

"Well, yes. But not that kind of friend." He took a deep breath. "You need to love someone to marry them, little one, not just like them."

"Do you love the princess, then?"

Now he had definitely forgotten how to speak. He looked away, swallowing.

"Well?" She looked at him sternly. He was not going to weasel his way out of marrying Lady Sabatt _that _easily. "The truth, now."

"Love is a very complicated thing, Aminah." He blew out a long sigh, still not looking at her. "Too complicated for me, I think."

"But you're smart!"

"Am I?" He turned to her and kissed her on the cheek, smiling a little. "Some would disagree."

…

Hakim slumped upon the sofa in his room, seriously considering going back to sleep. His comment to Aminah had been flippant; but now that he'd voiced the idea, it was becoming more and more tempting. His head ached, his eyelids felt warm and heavy … oh, yes, a nap would be nice. If tonight was anything like the previous, he'd be collapsing at the altar.

Not that that would be a bad thing. At least then he wouldn't have to marry Saraya.

No. No, no. He couldn't allow himself to think that. It was his duty to wed her, for the good of his country, and to fulfil his word. Besides, she wasn't _that_ bad, objectively speaking. Perhaps he might be able to learn to tolerate her presence. For very short periods.

He groaned, settling back into the cushions. Oh, who was he trying to fool? As a lifelong companion, the Princess was sadly lacking. Not like … no. No, he could not allow himself to dwell on what was, or what could have been. The die was cast now. He ought to – needed to, if he was to have any chance of happiness – force himself to forget. Banish from his mind a pair of maddeningly beautiful hazel eyes, a smile that melted his heart, and a laugh that could mend any hurt. But he doubted it was possible.

His eyes drooped, almost closing, and he shook himself awake with an effort. Very well, he could doze off for a couple of hours, but he needed to take proper precautions first. Namely, locking the door.

He dragged himself to his feet and over to the portal. The key spun in the lock with a reassuring click, and he turned back toward the sofa.

And noticed a small, white envelope upon his desk.

…

"Hey, Kes!"

Kestral instinctively straightened – causing her head to thump painfully into the shaft of the cart she was crouched next to. "Yow. Watch it, Lackbeard."

Marcus' footsteps were audible on the flagstone floor of the mews. "What _are_ you doing?"

"Investigating." She rubbed her wounded head, leaning against the edge of the cart. "One of the ostlers saw Qutai-whatever down here yesterday, and I'm seeing if he did any damage."

"Who?"

"Oh, right, you don't know about that yet. Ask Crims. She's the one who told me." Kestral pulled herself to her feet, turning to face Marcus, and felt her jaw drop.

Lord Marcus of Challia, against all the expectations and predictions of his colleagues, had cut his hair. It was admittedly still very Marcusy – more than a little shaggy, for starters. She had to admit that it looked kinda good. That wasn't gonna stop her from ragging him about it, though.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, grinning broadly. "I thought you were Marcus."

He chuckled and patted the back of his head self-consciously. "What do you think?"

"Looks … weird. But okay."

"Feels weird too." He smirked. "Want to come and see what Thordal says?"

"Yes, please!" She swung her leg over the shaft and vaulted over it – or tried to. Her left foot caught in the harness that someone had carelessly left attached to the cart, and she flopped back to the floor with a thud. "Yeouch."

"Well, what have we here?" Marcus laughed. "A cart has captured a bandit."

"It hates me, I'm certain." She freed her foot with a tug and crawled out from underneath the cart – then froze. Right behind Marcus, silently entering the mews, was Hakim.

Marcus, seeing her gaze, turned around, and coughed. "Ah. Hi."

Hakim inclined his head. "Hello, Marcus."

"Right. I'll just, uh, see to that thing that … needs to be seen to," he finished in a rush, darting past Hakim to the door. "See you later, Kes!"

Kestral scrambled to her feet, looking absolutely anywhere but Hakim's face. She was almost tempted to go after Marcus. "Hi, Wisey."

"Kestral." She heard him take a long breath. "I would like – that is to say –" A pause. "I need your help."

She looked up in mute surprise. Was she imagining it, or was that the first time she'd heard that question from his lips? He cleared his throat awkwardly, taking a few steps forward. "I am aware that you and Maria are conducting investigations. I would like you to look at this."

He handed her a sheet of paper, and she unfolded it and scanned it briefly. "Can't read Janubian."

"I know. But look a little closer."

She glanced over it again obediently. The neatly-written document was signed with a familiar device. "That's the crest of the Desert Raiders, isn't it?"

"Precisely."

"What's it say, then?"

"Simply put, it is an ultimatum." He began to pace restlessly, crossing his arms against his chest. "A death threat. The writer states that if I persist in my intention to marry Princess Saraya tomorrow, they shall ensure my demise."

"Like they hadn't already been trying or something." She frowned. "Wait a second. But aren't we sure that the Raiders aren't –"

"Yes."

"Then why –"

"I am reasonably certain that they are not the authors." He rubbed his chin with one hand. "What I would very much like to know – and cannot discover alone – is who _did_ write it."

"Well. Crims and Savas are the Raiders experts, not me." She shrugged, refolded the letter, and tucked it into her pocket. "I'll show it to them."

"Thank you."

"No problem." She looked a little closer at his expression. Solid though his mask was, she'd learned to see past it long ago. Right now, he looked exhausted, and he looked scared. For a moment she was tempted to march up to him, give him a hug, and see him smile – but no. That wasn't her right any more. "Don't let 'em freak you out, Wise Boy."

He stopped, looking at her, a tiny half-smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. "I'm not _frightened_, if that's what you're implying."

"Aren't you?" she teased. "I'd say being worried about assassins is only sensible."

"Only if they're a true threat. These are more irritating than anything else."

She giggled; then abruptly bit off her response. _No, Kes. Don't do this to yourself. _She had to get out of there.

She headed past him towards the archway into the courtyard, mumbling "Better go see Crims." He nodded briefly and allowed her to pass, face expressionless; but, as she reached the exit, spoke.

"I'm sorry."

She halted, refusing to look around, automatically hugging herself. How she'd longed to hear that. But it wasn't enough. "That's not really going to help, Princey," she whispered, eyes fixed on the tips of her boots.

"I know," he responded, in what was more a groan than actual speech. "But I can't – there isn't anything I can ..."

She understood that. She wasn't an expert on international politics by any means, but Crimmy had explained enough for her to get the gist of the situation between al-Awan and Hidun. It was too late. But that knowledge didn't, and couldn't, stop it hurting. "I would have said yes," she murmured. "I _would_, if you'd just ..."

"I know," he repeated, and her heart, if it hadn't already, split in two. "Now."

Kestral squeezed her eyes shut. Nope, she wasn't gonna cry. She couldn't let herself. "Bit late."

"Tell me something I don't know." She heard him step closer. "Forgive me, Kestral. Please."

How could she not? How could she possibly hold onto resent towards the man she loved more than life itself? Yeah, sure, he'd ripped her heart out and crushed it, but there was no way she could ever hate him. If she did, it'd wreck her life. They both had to move on.

Her voice shook. "Promise me one thing."

"Name it."

"Be happy." She turned around and looked up at him, biting her lip in an effort to control the tears that were threatening to fall. "Don't dwell on any of this. Just get on with your life." Oh, great. She was definitely crying now. "I'd hate to see you miserable for the rest of your days."

He pressed his lips together, emotions struggling in his eyes. Finally, with resignation, he nodded. "I promise." He held out his hand. "Do we part as friends?"

She took it in both of hers, gently, studying the bandages. How _had_ that happened, anyway? "Yes," she answered softly after a moment, releasing him. "Yes, we do."

…

"It's a forgery," Savas said firmly. Sabatt wasn't surprised.

"You're sure?" Kestral perched on the edge of the chart room table and swung her legs. "Really really? Wisey didn't see –"

"Absolutely certain." Savas tossed the letter onto the table and leaned over it. "See here. A true Desert Raider would have a stronger hand on the upstroke." He pointed it out, then indicated a different spot in the design, eyebrow lifting. "And would not have curled the lower left corner."

"Oh well," Sabatt said philosophically, shrugging. She stood up and strode over to the fireplace. "It was worth an attempt. Besides, I feel the curl is an improvement."

Kestral gaped at her. "You didn't – CRIMMY!"

The Guerannan woman's lip quirked. Now that the southerner had enlisted her fellow investigators, there was no point in allowing them to follow an unproductive lead. "As I said, it was worth an attempt."

Savas' eyes narrowed. "Were you a Janubian impersonating a Desert Raider," he said icily, "I would have no compunction in punishing you severely."

"Fortunately for me, I'm not –" She paused, and a smile involuntarily sneaked around her mouth. A small, tousled brown mop of hair was peeping around the door. "Hello, little one."

"I'm not little," Aminah protested indignantly, entering and clambering onto the chair next to Kestral. "What are you doing?"

Sabatt glanced at Kestral, who was wearing the blank expression she usually did when a foreign conversation was carried on in her presence. "I'm being told off."

Aminah giggled. "What did you do?"

"Oh, I –"

Savas cleared his throat. "Lady Sabatt, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to organise further security measures on the southern gate."

Sabatt nodded. "Excellent idea."

Savas exited with a nod. Kestral huffed out a sigh and crossed her legs, and Sabatt took that as permission to continue her conversation. "I tried to give your uncle a fright, that is all."

"Did it work?"

"I'm not sure."

Aminah folded her hands in her lap with a pert grin. "You should try putting glass in his soup."

Sabatt chuckled ruefully, running gloved fingers along the mantlepiece. "That _would_ work."

"Yes. It worked on Daddy too."

"I think it frightened all of us."

"No, I don't mean that." Aminah tossed her curls. "I mean when someone put glass in Daddy's soup it scared him. I heard him and Mummy talking about it." She smiled proudly. "They thought I was asleep. I'm good at pretending."

"Aminah," Sabatt said urgently, her brain racing, making the necessary logical leaps with all the enthusiasm of a bolting horse. "Someone put glass in your _father's_ soup?"

The little girl nodded, clearly not understanding even the most basic of the implications. "Mmm-hmm."

"Kestral," snapped Sabatt, stepping forward involuntarily, switching back to Westerlin. "You said that Temel is Ammar's heir."

The young woman looked up, blinking. "Yeah."

"With Jabir as regent?"

She sat up straight. "Yes."

"Consider what would happen if Jabir were – and he is – also a target."

Now Kestral bolted to her feet, working it out so fast her friend was almost proud. "Oh no."

"Oh yes," she replied grimly. "Find Ammar. I'll fetch backup. Now!"

…

"Ammar?"

Hakim glanced up, not shifting from his semi-comfortable position upon a stone bench, elbow upon his knee and chin upon his fist. The castle's herb garden, tucked away in the corner of the courtyard behind a low stone wall, had never been one of his usual haunts. Missus Perkins, the cook, might allow the Knights all kinds of leeway in the kitchen, but her herb garden was a domain not to be entered by any but the most trusted. The Knights of Darion were not included in that number; however, he hoped that he might be able to claim diplomatic immunity. He made no such guarantees for the two gentlemen who had just entered the area, though.

"My apologies," he murmured. "I was lost in thought."

"Understandable," Jabir replied with a wry smile, coming fully into the small enclosure.

Doruk leaned against the wall, crushing a thyme bush growing out from between the stones. "What triggers this particular reverie?"

"I've received a letter." Hakim sat up straight. Better tell them part of the truth than the actual reason he was skulking in a corner. "From my would-be assassin."

"What?" Doruk blurted, removing his shoulder from the bush.

"You're not serious?" asked Jabir blankly.

"Very much so. The first direct contact we've had."

Doruk crossed his arms. "Any signature?"

"The crest of the Desert Raiders, but that's a deception, of course."

Jabir nodded slowly. "Of course. May we see it?"

"I don't have it with me, I'm afraid. It merely stated that should the wedding go ahead –"

He stopped, out of necessity rather than choice. Halfway through his sentence, Kestral charged through the gate, looked 'round the assembled company, grabbed Doruk by the front of his robe, and shoved him up against the wall. Doruk looked far too surprised to react. "You," she hissed, bringing a dagger, "stay put. I know how to use this."

Hakim bolted to his feet. "Kestral, what in the world are you doing?"

"Think about it, Wise Boy." She glanced over her shoulder. "Who benefits most from your death?" She nodded towards Jabir, who was standing open-mouthed. "You, of course, since you'd be Temel's regent. But what if you die, too?" She aimed a glare at Doruk. "Guess who gets to run the show. Didn't want to give up any of your influence, huh?"

Hakim's brain was numb, his thoughts moving at the speed of treacle. _No. _No, it was simply impossible. He couldn't believe it.

Or did he simply not want to believe it?

Doruk struggled, then stopped as Kestral shifted the dagger. "This is ridiculous."

"I agree," Jabir said shakily, face drained of all colour. "I hope you have rather more evidence than this, Lady Kestral."

Kestral smirked grimly. "Just try talking to Qutaibah."

Doruk visibly paled. That in itself was practically an admission of guilt. But no, no, the evidence was all circumstantial, he couldn't possibly – "Come now, Ammar." He laughed weakly. "Given the choice, precisely who are you going to believe – a bandit girl, or one of your oldest friends?"

The man was right. Hakim's mind was made up. Put like that, it was the simplest thing in the world.

"Kestral, let him go."

"But –" Her expression was one of dismayed alarm, and it was all he could do to control his own. "Wisey!"

"Let him go."

Slowly, reluctantly, she lowered the knife and stepped away, clearly still ready to act at any moment. Hakim stepped up to the pair and looked Doruk in the eye.

And struck him with the full force of his arm. Doruk slammed back against the wall, and for a second Hakim was tempted to lash out again, but restrained himself. Just.

"Why?" he whispered hoarsely, ice cold fury creeping through him. Why indeed? Why would the man he'd relied on for years – hunted with – rode with – played with as a boy – _trusted_ –

Doruk rubbed his jaw. A trickle of blood was creeping from between his lips. "Why do you think, _Hakim_?" All trace of friendliness was now gone. "Do you think neglecting your country for half a decade entitles you to respect and loyalty? I do not enjoy the prospect of letting the country I love be destroyed by a man without any sense of responsibility or duty!"

Hakim flinched, yet again controlling the impulse to violence. The accusations were close to the mark. Too close to not set his conscience stinging. "I do not have to answer to you, Doruk."

"Oh, do you not? What about to each struggling farmer and merchant in Jumajir?" Both mind and body winced. "Have you any idea what's been happening in your absence – what sacrifices it's been necessary for me to make just to keep matters balanced? Your country needed you, and you have let us down." His voice dropped a little. "And I, for one, do not believe in second chances."

"Yes, you do."

Jabir. Hakim half-turned, as did Kestral. He continued, breathing ragged. "What you do not believe in is giving up. You'll cling to power at any cost, even if you destroy everything you have ever cared about, because you honestly believe that your way is best. You do not understand what loyalty is, Doruk, much less love. You never have."

Doruk did not respond, and his expression did not alter; but his shoulders sank and his posture drooped. There was nothing that could be done now. He'd confessed, before witnesses. Hakim's course of action was clear, but his mind shrank away from it as a coward from duty.

And then rescue, of a sort. Marcus sprinted through the small opening in the wall, closely followed by Maria and Lieutenant Chester of the castle guard. "What's –"

"Lord Marcus," Hakim said evenly, teeth gritted. "You would be doing me a very great favour were you to place this man under arrest."

"Right." Hakim was vaguely thankful that Marcus was enough of a soldier to obey a simple request without question. The young man motioned to Chester, who quickly and efficiently tied Doruk's hands. "The charge?"

He couldn't say it. He tried, but the words would not come.

Maria spoke quietly. "Attempted murder. Far more counts than I can compute at this moment."

Marcus' jaw slackened a little, but he accepted her word without demur. "Very well, then. Chester?"

And Marcus and the lieutenant unceremoniously escorted Doruk out. Silence.

"Kestral," Hakim muttered, squashing his emotions into a corner of his brain. "Your evidence was flawed. Qutaibah is _unable_ to talk."

"A fact that our culprit apparently forgot," she responded humourlessly.

"And thus incriminated himself by confessing." Maria shifted the position of her cane with a sigh. "Well."

Hakim could not think of a word less apt for the situation.

More footsteps. Farihah raced in a moment later, Princess Saraya at her heels. "Whatever in the world is going on?" she cried. "Why is Doruk –" Then she took in their faces, and clapped both hands over her mouth. "No –"

"Yes," Maria answered.

Farihah did not hesitate one more second. She rushed to her husband, who buried his face in her shoulder, clinging to his wife. Hakim bit his lip. If this felt like a betrayal to _him_, how must it be for Doruk's _brother_?

"But – oh, how horrible!" Saraya gasped, hurrying over to him. "Ammar, are you quite all right?"

"I am uninjured."

"I'm so glad!" With that, she hugged him tightly, and he absent-mindedly put one arm around her, gaze fixed on Kestral.

"Thank you," he mouthed.

For a tiny second, she smiled.


	9. In Which Elias Is Mentioned

**Author's Note: **While Rockerduck usually has loads to do with the editing process of these, she also had rather a lot to do with the writing in this particular chapter as well: the second scene is about 70%* her ideas, and much is even her exact words. As for the other 30%* of that bit, a decent portion was heatherek's idea. Thank you so much to both of you! *awards cookies*

* 50% of statistics are just made up. The rest are rough estimates. These fit into the second category.

* * *

><p>"I still can't believe it." Alandra sat down upon the sofa in her and Marcus' quarters, rubbing one temple. "How could someone possibly plot to murder their own <em>brother<em>?"

"You don't have siblings," said Marcus dryly.

"That is not funny."

"Badly timed?"

"Very."

Marcus sighed and slumped down next to her. "Sorry. In all seriousness, I can't understand it either." He groaned. Doruk al-Razi was safely locked away in the castle dungeons, but they hadn't relaxed security. Paranoid, perhaps, but Marcus was of the opinion that a little paranoia could sometimes be healthy. "That's politics for you."

Alandra nodded, then took a deep breath and brushed her hands along her skirt. "Enough of this unpleasant topic, I think."

"Or you'll want to drop your title and run off to Gallos with me?"

"Something like that." She looked him full in the face for the first time since they'd retired to their room, and she smiled. "So," she said casually. "You _have_ been busy today."

"Hmm? Oh, right." He chuckled, running his fingers over his now-short hair. It felt extremely strange; looked strange, too. He jumped every time he saw a mirror. "What do you think?"

He was more than a little nervous asking, but his worries were unnecessary. Alandra tilted her head to one side consideringly, a twinkle in her gorgeous eyes. "Hmm. It's unexpected, certainly, and it'll take some getting used to, but I like it."

"You do?"

"I do." She reached over and ruffled his locks affectionately. "Very distinguished."

He laughed and ducked away. "Not now that you've messed it up, it's not."

"Well, it will be. Just don't get too carried away and grow a beard."

"No fear of that, darling. Kestral would have a heart attack."

In response, she chuckled and snuggled against his shoulder. "So why, then?"

"Why what?"

"Why the sudden decision to shed the hair?"

Marcus winced, mind racing back to the fears of the previous day. _Okay. Man up. Ask. _

He shifted away, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Lani," he began, apprehension mounting every second. "What's wrong?"

"Marcus, what on earth do you mean?"

"I mean –" Deep breath. No going back now. "I mean, with our child. What's wrong with our baby?" Everything came out in a rush. "I can take it. Just tell me what's going on, or I'm gonna go mad."

She stared at him open-mouthed, eyes widening, and for a moment he doubted – had Thordal been wrong? Maybe she _wasn't_ pregnant. Maybe he _wasn't_ going to be a dad, after all.

For a second, he felt vaguely bereft. But then Alandra's expression shifted into an overjoyed grin. "Marcus," she managed, giggling. "The only thing wrong with our child is that they have a mother entirely too stupid to realise she's pregnant."

Marcus' own jaw dropped. "You mean – you didn't _know_?"

"I had no idea!" She laughed again, placing a hand on her stomach and beaming down at it. "But it's obvious, isn't it? I'm such an –"

But she didn't have a chance to finish the sentence. Marcus kissed her, then hugged her tightly (careful not to crush her belly, of course), so idiotically happy he couldn't form a coherent thought. Alandra nestled into his neck, still giggling. "How long have _you_ known?"

"Since the day before yesterday," Marcus replied, rather ruefully. "Thordal tipped me off. I thought you'd known for ages and hadn't told me for some reason."

"And so you jumped to the conclusion that something was horribly wrong and delayed telling me for several days as a result?"

"Uh, yeah. Sorry."

She shook her head with a chuckle. "Marcus, dearest, what _am_ I going to do with you?"

"Let me hold the baby occasionally?"

"Only if you promise not to drop the poor thing."

Marcus kissed her forehead. "My word on it."

…

Sabatt closed her bedroom door behind her with a yawn. She walked over to her dressing table and stripped off her gloves, then splashed her face with water. It was tepid by now, but better than –

A knock sounded upon the door, and she grabbed hastily for a towel. "One moment." In some ways, she'd been expecting this. Kestral had kept remarkably calm these past few days; it was inevitable that she would break down eventually. Sabatt had no objection to being a shoulder to cry on, but she preferred to do it with a dry face.

A few quick wipes with the towel was enough, then she strode to the door and opened it. And was shocked into silence.

"Maria," Ammar whispered hoarsely. "Tell me what to do."

"Southerner. Come in." Her tone was pressing, though there was little chance of any of the servants being around at this hour. All Ammar's usual dignity had been ripped away. His clothes were as dishevelled as if he'd slept in them, but his face made it quite plain that he had not slept at all. Pale beneath his tan, dark circles under his eyes –

She gestured to the sofa, and he obediently made his way over to it; then slumped down and rested his forehead against his left palm. Sabatt watched him pityingly. Guilt and self-loathing were written all over his demeanour. She pursed her lips. Yes, he was a prince among fools, but he did not deserve this kind of agony.

"Ammar," she said gently, even a little affectionately. "Try to relax and regain your composure. There's little either of us can do at this hour."

He looked up at her wearily, eyes bloodshot. "Thank you. I –" And his gaze dropped again, as he began to rub roughly at his brow, kneading the skin so hard she winced. "I apologise for the manner in which I –"

"Indeed you should, but don't concern yourself with it now. I'll remind you later when I can derive satisfaction from your humiliation."

He smiled faintly, voice wry. "I'm not sure if I should thank you for that or not."

"I wouldn't. Now, what is it you want me to tell you about this mess that you haven't already figured out for yourself?"

He did not respond, but his maltreatment of his forehead intensified. After a moment, she joined him on the sofa, sighing softly. "No. You didn't come to me so that I could make you more miserable." She was rewarded with a weak half-smile. "What is it you wished to ask me about?"

Ammar's accent seemed thicker, somehow. "Kestral. I – I don't know – is there _anything_ I can do to make this less painful for her?"

"Marry her," she replied bluntly.

He flinched; when he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "You know that's not possible now."

He was right. Much as she hated to admit it. A tiny nod. "Yes. I know."

A moan escaped his lips as he hid his face in his hands. Sabatt hesitated – then reached out and gently rubbed his shoulder. "Don't worry about Kestral. I'll look after her – and besides, she's resilient. She'll bounce back." She paused. "It's you I'm worried about. Don't spend the rest of your life in a mire of regret and misery."

He gave a little choking laugh. "Kestral said much the same."

"In that case, it's doubly true."

"But no less difficult." He let his hands drop and stared unseeing at the floor. "I've ruined my life."

"Yes."

"You're such a comfort."

"Sorry." Her next decision was a surprisingly easy one. She patted his shoulder lightly, then stood and made her way back to her dresser. A rapid glance into her neatly-ordered top drawer was enough to locate her quarry: a small black box. She removed it and turned. Ammar was watching her, a puzzled expression on his face. "I was going to give this to you as a wedding present," she explained. "But I think it might be better now."

Both his eyebrows lifted; but he stood and came over to her, accepting the box. He opened it wordlessly, then froze, staring at the item within.

"You remember this?" She knew without looking what he could see. A tiny, beautifully carved gold pin in the shape of an eagle, wings stretched.

"Ghalib's pin," he answered softly, nodding, stroking it with one fingertip. He sounded rueful. "The first thing I ever stole, and it was from my elder brother."

"Don't take all the credit. I did help." Sabatt chuckled quietly. "You were so jealous of him, weren't you?"

"Not of him personally." A bitter, twisted smile crept onto one corner of his mouth. "The lot of the younger son isn't always an easy one. My father had time only for his heir."

"And so you borrowed your brother's prized possession."

"Borrowed?" he asked, raising one eyebrow.

"Don't you recall? You gave it to me with the understanding that when the young prince was of age and took the throne – and no longer needed such ridiculous baubles – I would give it back."

"Rather twisted logic on my part."

"You can hardly expect rational thinking from an aggrieved and neglected seven year old." She shifted so that she could see the shining ornament, each minuscule amber eye looking up at her. "I didn't keep my promise, I'm afraid. I hadn't any opportunity to return it before Ghalib's death."

For a moment she wondered if he would make some bitter comment, but none was forthcoming. She breathed a little more easily, taking the pin cautiously between two fingertips. She had never met Prince Ghalib as an adult, but she remembered the child well – as a spoilt, unruly boy convinced of his own superiority. When Ammar had suggested taking the pin, so long ago, she'd agreed without hesitation: not because she wanted the ornament, but because Ghalib desperately needed to be taken down a peg. Perhaps it was unfair to pronounce judgement on a man based on his childhood deeds, but Sabatt wasn't feeling particularly fair tonight.

Turning, she pinned it carefully to his robe. "So we shall have to settle for the heir. Who, I believe, will be a far better ruler than his brother ever could."

His lips moved soundlessly, his eyes crowded with emotion; then, to her momentary surprise, he hugged her tightly, letting the box fall forgotten to the floor.

"I'm not –" he began shakily, after a few seconds. "I can't – I cannot rule, Maria. Not like this. Not by myself."

"Yes, you can," she replied quietly, words muffled by his robes. "Not as well, perhaps, I shall admit, but you will survive – and Janub will thrive, I'm sure."

"But –" His voice was steadier now, but no less anxious. "I'm not my grandfather. I'm not even my father. I never expected – never prepared for this. And even if I had –" A long breath. "I was always so glad Ghalib was the heir, not me. I'd make an appalling king."

Sabatt pulled away, looking him squarely in the eye. "Ammar, anyone looking at how much you're sacrificing for your nation tomorrow won't ever dare doubt your suitability. Frankly," she continued wryly, "I think this is the bravest thing you've ever done."

Ammar grimaced. "To the point where I am still not sure if I can go through with it."

The Guerannan woman watched him carefully. "Then why do it? You said yourself that it would be destroying your life."

"I cannot ruin my country for the sake of my own happiness."

"But would it be ruin? What's best for your country is to place yourself in the best possible position from which to rule them. It's hardly helping al-Awan if you spend the rest of your life crying yourself to sleep at night. You must find the road you need to walk upon, and you must chose who you want by your side on the journey. Choose wisely, Prince Ammar." She took a short, sharp breath. "Because there is one thing I know will not pass, and that is remorse."

…

"Morning, Kestie."

Kestral turned around, and promptly cracked up laughing. "Thordie, wh – what happened to you?"

The Viking stroked his beard defensively. If it could really be called a beard. Someone – she was sure it wasn't him – had neatly separated it into half-a-dozen strands and braided each, fastening the ends with little metal rings. "It's my formal look."

"Please don't tell me Crimmy inflicted that on you."

"Not speaking without legal counsel present." He crossed his arms. "You can't talk, lass. You call that a hairdo?"

Kestral made a face and felt her hair. She'd brushed all the knots out and chucked it up into a ponytail, which was pretty much the extent of her hairdressing capabilities. "Do you?"

"No. Go see Maria."

"Thordal," she responded calmly. "I am wearing a dress. I am even wearing a corset. Do you seriously expect me to submit to having my hair messed up as well?"

He thought for a second, then nodded. "Yeah."

"I hate you."

"Nah, you don't."

…

"Thank you, Jabir," Hakim murmured, peering out between the curtains. The guests were assembling in the main cathedral now, their voices echoing around the stone rafters. Not long until he would have to leave the safety of this side chamber.

"It's not a problem." He glanced back in time to see his friend shrug. "Someone's got to be the best man."

"I didn't mean that. I meant – well – thank you for not hating me."

Jabir sighed. "He tried to kill me too, Ammar. I'd be mad if I sided with him."

"Still. Thank you." Hakim took a deep breath, running his fingers along the rough stonework. "Why didn't you tell me you were also a target?"

The other man hesitated. "Because, I think … I think I knew. About Doruk. Deep down. I simply did not want to consider it."

"Neither did I."

Jabir appeared, for a moment, to bite his lip. "He's always been ruthless. I just didn't realise how much, until yesterday. He chooses a cause and sacrifices absolutely anything in the world for it – not just himself, but friends and family – without stopping to consider the potential consequences."

Hakim leaned against the pillar, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. "One must not risk the safety of others for one's own ends," he mused. "But one should be willing to sacrifice oneself for something that matters."

"Is that what you're doing now?"

He closed his eyes, numbed now to the thoughts of a life with Saraya. A life without Kestral. "Yes."

A touch on his shoulder. Hakim lifted his lids to see Jabir standing beside him, lips pressed together in silent sympathy.

…

Whenever she was inside Vestholm Cathedral, Kestral inevitably ended up staring at the ceiling. Each stone arch was carved in such intricate detail it could hold her spellbound for hours. Vines, leaves, branches, fruits of hard grey rock twisted and weaved their way above her like a forest canopy back home. It was beautiful – and, frankly, right now, she needed any distraction she could get.

She knew without looking that Wise Boy was standing up at the front of the cathedral, Jabir al-Razi by his side. Last time she'd checked, he'd had his back turned to the congregation, waiting steadfastly for his new bride. Kestral chewed her lower lip, head still tilted up. They were _both_ idiots to let this happen.

"All right, lass?" Thordal muttered, beside her in the pew, as promised. She nodded mutely, and he squeezed her hand for a second, his enormous around hers. "No one's making you watch, you know."

"If I don't, imagine how people are gonna talk." She blew out a sigh. "We weren't always exactly discreet."

"Since when are you afraid of a few rumours?"

Since she'd started caring about what Princey's people thought of him. But she did not voice the thought, and Thordal accepted her silence, pressing her hand lightly again.

The organist started up. Apparently, rather than try to achieve some bizarre compromise between a Janubian ceremony and Hidun's traditions, they'd simply gone for standard Westerlin procedure. To Kestral, the long notes sounded uncomfortably like a funeral march. She folded her hands in her lap and squeezed them together so tightly her knuckles turned white.

And the procession started. Kestral had had no idea the deputation from Hidun was _that_ large. It was lucky they hadn't had to host them all at the castle. The various dignitaries were decked out in what was presumably Hidun formal dress; the sheer array of colours was dazzling. Finally, Saraya entered, upon her father's arm, and the bandit girl from Gallos felt a distinct jealous twinge. The princess was beautiful at any time, but right now, gliding down the aisle, she was at her best. Long brown hair twisted up behind her head, gown a sparkling rainbow of turquoises and oranges – oh yeah, Kestral was jealous, all right. She abruptly turned around to face the front and glared down at her own green dress.

She looked up only as the music died down. Saraya had reached the front of the church: Wisey took her hand with stiff dignity as they both turned towards the bishop. The elderly priest cleared his throat, then launched into the service. Kestral had heard it all before half-a-dozen times; at least at those other weddings, it had applied. All the stuff about uniting the couple in the bonds of love – hah. Wise Boy didn't love Saraya, and if she knew him even a little, he never could. She almost wished he _would_ – at least then he'd be happy. But nah. Not her Wisey.

_Cut it out, Kes. He's not _your_ Wisey any more. _

Her focus snapped back to the bishop. "If any person here today can show just cause why this man and woman should not be joined in holy matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace."

Kestral's breath caught. _Just cause. _She loved him. Simple as that – and as horrible, because it was _why_ she had to let him do this in the first place. He was Prince of Sahir al-Awan first and foremost; had been long before he'd fallen for her. He had to do what he thought best for his country, and he'd made his choice. Selfishness wasn't a just cause.

Her vision blurred and swam.

A touch on her leg. She looked up at Thordal. He was watching her expectantly – no, not expectant. Reassuring. As if whatever she chose to do, it would be okay.

She glanced quickly past him. Marcus, Alandra, Elias, Crims: they were all watching her.

Kestral shook her head.

Thordal grimaced sympathetically, patting her shoulder, and it was all she could do not to turn and hide her face in his shirt. She traced the folds of her skirt with her finger, the last remaining fragments of her heart beginning to ache.

There was only a few seconds between the bishop's two sentences, but it felt like a lifetime. Finally, he began: "Marriage is a sacred union between –"

"Wait."

Saraya's voice was soft but urgent. Kestral raised her head. Both Wisey and the priest were staring at her blankly. After a brief hesitation, the princess turned to her fiancé, and a whispered conversation ensued. Kestral's heart thudded up into her mouth, then to the bottom of her stomach.

It practically took a century, but finally they seemed to reach a conclusion – and, to Kestral's utter surprise, Hakim bent down and kissed Saraya on the cheek. Then the princess turned and started back the way she came through the pews. A wild, crazy hope sprung in Kestral's breast, but it was short-lived. A hubbub of voices promptly started up, one rising above it all: the Mogul of Hidun himself.

"Saraya, what are you – Prince Ammar, what precisely is going on?"

Wise Boy was too far away for her to catch the look in his eyes, but his expression was of dry amusement. "I am not completely certain myself, but I believe I have just been left at the altar."

Kestral's heart performed a somersault.

"_What_?" The Mogul, now standing up at the front of the cathedral near Wisey, was rapidly turning the colour of a beetroot. "Saraya, stop there this instant!"

The princess obeyed, turning to face him. "Yes, Father?" she responded demurely. But in her eyes lay something Kestral was reasonably certain she'd never seen there before: steely determination.

"Explain yourself, my daughter! Why have you slighted Prince Ammar?"

"I have not slighted His Highness," Saraya replied evenly, her usual high tones subdued. "Rather, we have come to an agreement, and I have released him from his obligations."

"Why?!"

"Father." Now her voice was strained. She sounded like Kestral felt. "Must this be explained now?"

"If you do not come back here immediately, then yes, it must!" Kestral almost winced. She would _not_ want to have the Mogul's bellow aimed in her direction. He was worse than Alandra. It seemed to be more than enough to scare Saraya into talking.

"There are many things I am willing to do for Hidun," the poor girl snapped, "but I have enough pride to prefer to marry a man who loves me!"

Kestral had never felt so well disposed towards Princess Saraya in her life.

"He does not –" Praphat rounded on Hakim, voice blazing. "This is a pretty way to treat an ally, sir!"

There was faint alarm in Hakim's face, but his voice was steady. "I do not and never have intended any insult to Her Highness. We have simply mutually agreed that we do not suit."

"Do not sui – what has that to do with it? A treaty has been signed, but if you wish to break it –"

"Father!" Saraya took a step forward. "Please do not be rash. Prince Ammar does not mean to offend me. His affections are simply engaged elsewhere."

Kestral tensed, suddenly wanting to hide, unable to tear her eyes away from the scene. Thordal placed his hand on hers, but it was hardly reassuring.

Hakim seemed to have much the same reaction. He stepped back a little from the Mogul, who was now almost incoherent with rage. "How dare you?" Praphat shouted. "First you lie to us, then you –"

"Mogul," Her Majesty interrupted, cold and measured, and Kestral nearly sighed in relief. "Kindly remember that you are speaking to a friend and ally of the Darion Empire."

The Mogul deflated. Just a bit. But still he aimed a glare at Hakim. "A fine friend and ally indeed. One who would go behind my daughter's back and –"

"Father, he has not been unfaithful to me!" Saraya blurted. "Prince Ammar has loved Lady Kestral far longer than – oh!"

She clapped her hands over her mouth, but it was too late. Kestral wanted to disappear into the flagstones. Pretty much every pair of eyes in the building turned to her, including and especially the Mogul's.

"You!" Praphat's eyes narrowed. "And it gets more infamous. What will the Darion Empire have endorsed next? To harbour such a woman –"

Kestral decided promptly that her dignity wasn't worth a diplomatic crisis. Before the Mogul could get out another word, she sprang to her feet and fled down the aisle, past the guards, out the gigantic double door and into the glaring sunshine of Vestholm's marketplace.

The city's centre was teeming with staff and citizens adding the finishing touches to the festival decorations. Perfect. If there was one thing Kestral was good at, it was getting lost in a crowd. She bolted directly forward, toward the fountain, eyes stinging like mad.

Then a hand caught hers, bringing her to an abrupt halt.

Slowly, she turned. Hakim clasped her right hand in his left, panting from his brief sprint. Guilt churned in deep brown eyes, so much it was almost sufficient apology in itself. "Kestral," he gasped. "Kestral, I – I am so sorry."

She took a shaky breath, unable to answer sensibly. Seeing her silence, he continued. "I've been a fool – a complete, utter, unsurpassed, abominable fool. I don't think I shall ever forgive myself for what I've put you through these past months."

Kestral was suddenly conscious that tears were determinedly making their way down her cheeks. She gripped his hand tighter, still incapable of speech, hoping that he'd interpret her right.

He did. "Kestral, my darling," – and her heart melted – "I love you. I love you so very dearly I cannot adequately express one fraction of it. You are the only woman I ever have or ever will feel for –" His voice cracked, trembling. "And I cannot think of anything that would make me happier than to have you by my side. If you can possibly ever find it in your heart to forgive me …"

She giggled tearfully, so happy she could barely breathe; then all but jumped on him, throwing her arms about his neck and kissing him. He returned the embrace, clutching her against him, and when she could draw breath again she buried her face in his robe, crying with joy.

"I take it you forgive me, then?" he murmured in her ear.

"Definitely," she whispered. "I love you too, Wisey Boy."

And then, in what she considered a very rude interruption, someone started clapping. Then someone else, and then there was full-blown applause. She pulled away from Hakim enough to see: everyone in the marketplace had joined in. So had Crimmy, Thordie and Lackbeard; the three of them were apparently forming a security barricade across the cathedral doors. Kestral suspected that Thordal was probably responsible for the applause. Or possibly Marcus. Hard to tell. "Cut it out, you guys," she laughed, rubbing at her face with the hand that wasn't clinging to Princey.

"Nope!" Thordal called, still clapping his huge hands. "Not a chance!"

Kestral shook her head laughingly; then remembered the commotion inside the cathedral, and instinctively held Hakim tighter. "Wisey," she asked urgently, voice low. "What about the Mogul?"

"Saraya will handle him." He chuckled wryly. "And if she can't, Her Majesty will."

"You sure? We don't want Hidun declaring war."

"Kestral," he said fondly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her right ear. "With you on our side, I don't think Hidun would stand a chance."

She spluttered. "Shameless flattery, that."

"I refuse to apologise."

"'Sokay. I kinda like it."

"Hey!" Marcus called, grinning, jerking a finger toward the building behind. "You two want to use this place? I hear it's available."

"I don't know." Kestral shifted and looked up at Hakim, smiling, aware that she probably looked ridiculously sappy. She didn't care. "Princey hasn't asked me yet."

He looked down into her face, such complete adoration visible in his eyes that she almost cracked up laughing. For a few brief, brilliant moments, he didn't seem to care in the slightest what anyone thought, and was therefore displaying emotion with reckless abandon. It was _weird. _But nice. Very nice.

He released her gently, still holding her hand, then cleared his throat and bent one knee. "Lady Kestral, would you do me the honour –" He paused, smile broadening. "– of becoming my wife?"

"Yeah." She giggled, voice wobbling. "I can do that."

He laughed aloud, sprung to his feet and kissed her again, and Kestral's heart was full.

"So she said no, then, right?" Thordal teased loudly.

Hakim relaxed his grip slightly. "Far from it."


	10. In Which Wisey Receives His Just Deserts

**Author's Note: **And so ends my longest contribution to the Settlers fan fiction database – and my last for the foreseeable future, as the focus of my writing is going to be shifting to college work for now. :) _Long Live _has been enormous fun to write (though sometimes frustrating!), and I'm thrilled that the story I've had in my head for the past year and a half is finally complete. Thanks for being along for the ride – I look forward to seeing what the rest of you have up your sleeves!

Special thanks to: BlairBrown, for putting up with me ranting on about this fic for months on end; heatherek, for inspiring some very cute scenes; and Rockerduck, for being a fabulous editor, and for teaching me more about writing a decent story than my English teachers ever did. :D

* * *

><p>"Well, Temel," Kestral said conversationally, shifting her grip on her new nephew. "What's your opinion on all this, then? Want me as an aunty?"<p>

The small boy responded by snuggling against her neck. "Kehtoll."

"I'll take that as a yes. Can you say 'Aunty Kestral'?"

"Kehtoll."

"That'll do for now." She rubbed his back, grinning as she looked around Vestholm's marketplace. The sun was nearing the horizon, spraying gold and purple beams on the white clouds above; the rest of the setting was no less colourful. The people of Vestholm had been decorating enthusiastically for the past couple of weeks, and the result was absolutely splendid. She did notice that a few of Hidun's banners had been discreetly removed in the last two hours, though.

She heard Hakim speak, and turned around instinctively – then chuckled. Her husband (she loved using that word) was bent on one knee about ten yards away, engaged in a very serious conversation with Temel's elder sister. They were too far away for her to catch the words; not that she would have understood them anyway. Hmm, that was a thought – she'd have to learn Janubian, and fast. Oh well. Small price to pay.

As she watched, Aminah stepped forward and kissed her uncle on the cheek. He returned the compliment, and she gave him an impish smile and made a beeline for Crimmy on the other side of the marketplace.

"She's a little aggrieved, I think." Farihah stepped up to Kestral's side, nodding towards Wisey and Aminah.

"Why?" Kestral asked, amused. "Doesn't she like me?"

"Oh, she doesn't dislike you." Farihah giggled. "But she likes Maria better."

Kestral gaped. The very idea of Crimmy and Wise Boy – nah, she couldn't even bring herself to think about it. "Eww. Just no."

"My husband would second your sentiment, I think."

"He doesn't like Crims?"

"He is a little frightened of her, I think." Farihah smiled ruefully, then reached out and patted her son's back. "And while I consider her a friend, I do not think she and Ammar would be suitable for one another."

"No way. Ever." Kestral grinned, shifting a yawning Temel to her other shoulder. "Do I pass muster?"

Farihah assumed a solemn expression, stepped back, and looked Kestral up and down with a critical eye. "I think you'll do." She laughed suddenly, her face lighting up, and Kestral was struck with how similar her smile was to Hakim's. "I must admit that I did not predict this, though – I knew Ammar cherished no romantic feelings for Princess Saraya, but I didn't realise that it was you whom he loved!"

"Really? I thought he hid it appallingly."

"Perhaps I do not know my brother as well as I once did." Farihah gently took Temel from Kestral and settled him against her own shoulder. "I hope to remedy that – and to learn to know my new sister, also."

Kestral grinned broadly. "You can count on it."

…

Aminah reached up and tugged on Lady Sabatt's skirt. The lady promptly obliged by looking down at her and smiling. "Good evening, Aminah. Isn't it past your bedtime?"

"Not yet." Aminah glanced sideways at her mother, who was talking to that woman Uncle Ammar had gone and married. "Soon. Then we leave in the morning."

"So soon? That's hardly fair."

Aminah pouted. "I know. I want to stay more."

"Well," Lady Sabatt said matter-of-factly, placing both hands on the knob of her cane. "It can't be helped. I shall have to say my goodbyes tomorrow."

"Will you wave from the harbour?"

"I promise."

Aminah smiled, then looked down at the cobbles, eyes suddenly stinging. Lady Sabatt was her first proper grown-up friend, and she was going to lose her – and Uncle Ammar, too, because he had someone else to pay attention to now. "I – I'm going to miss you," she whispered, trying very extremely hard not to cry.

There was the sound of rustling skirts – then arms wrapped warmly around her. "I'll miss you too."

…

Hakim waited until Jabir had retrieved his daughter before approaching Maria. As fond as he was of his niece, this was one conversation that he preferred she not hear.

As he stepped up behind her, she turned and smirked. "Well. My congratulations."

"Thank you."

Maria chuckled. "You're welcome. What other inane pleasantries can we use? The weather is very fine tonight."

He rolled his eyes, and she laughed again and nodded towards the other side of the marketplace. "I no longer have to punish you, I see."

Hakim looked over his shoulder, and felt his lips shift into an excessively sentimental smile. Kestral was chatting to a group of nobles he barely knew, eyes sparkling, giggling happily. It was almost impossible for him to tear his eyes from the sight. "She seems content with the situation."

"I'm sure she is!" Maria tilted her head sideways, smiling archly. "There was once a day when I would have done anything to be in her shoes."

"What do you mean?"

Her eyes glinted mischievously. "Not so long ago, Southerner, I was madly infatuated with you."

Surprise prevailed over any other emotion. He blinked, attempting to digest the information, then raised an eyebrow. "That is a slightly alarming revelation."

She laughed aloud – something he had not seen in a long while. Perhaps ever. "No need for concern. The attraction has long since faded."

"Flattering." He raised his other eyebrow.

"Your own fault, I'm afraid." Her mirth continued unabated. "I lost all interest in you around the time you hit me in the jaw."

The funny side presented itself forcefully, and he couldn't help but join her laughter, grinning ruefully. "Well. I did not expect _that_."

"Why not?" She giggled a little. "I remember finding you rather fascinating. You were certainly a match for me, which was something I wasn't very used to at the time. But, of course, you never noticed me." She nodded towards his wife. "You had eyes only for Kestral."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"Oh, I'm not disappointed, Ammar." Her expression softened as she glanced over her shoulder towards Thordal. "I've got my very own Viking to make up for it. Besides." The amusement in her eyes faded slightly; her mouth tightened. "It was not you I was in love with. It was the ideal – a memory of a boy who had been kind to me when no one else would. A dream of a Prince Charming that might one day rescue me from the nightmare that was my life." She smiled humourlessly. "One I held onto for years, even as I stopped believing in fairy tales."

He swallowed, unsure of the appropriate response. "And then?"

Sabatt half-smiled, genuinely this time. "And then I met you in Narlind."

"Ah."

"Exactly." She exhaled a little. "A Prince of Sahir al-Awan wandering around in the middle of a war zone was convenient for no one, and dangerous for you, especially considering – well, let's not rehash a painful topic."

"So you locked me up. Touching."

Her smirk returned. "Today is your day for sarcasm, isn't it? I could not anticipate, of course, that the rogue would come along and free you. It changed everything."

The Janubian glanced fondly across at his wife. "She certainly did."

"Yes." There was no resentment in Maria's tone. "When I saw you again in al-Awan, I must admit that you caught me by surprise. Not because you were there, for that was expected, but that you had thrown in your lot with the Darion Empire – and that you stayed with them even after Janub was safe."

"I surprised myself," he responded dryly.

"I know." She looked up at him, a strange expression on her face. "It was there, at Tijah, as we fought, that I realised the hero of my girlhood's imagination did not exist. Ammar al-Basir was no Prince Charming – he was a human being who remembered not a moment of what I had clung to and, moreover, saw me as a hated enemy." She hesitated. "It was a rather uncomfortable thought."

His gaze shifted downwards guiltily. "I'm sorry."

"You could not have known." She shrugged elegantly, the amusement flickering back to life. "Even if you had, would you have cared?"

"Honesty compels me to say no."

"Oh, _now_ you make a point of telling the truth," she teased.

He mock-glared at her. "That hurts, Maria."

"And admitting feelings, too – what progress!" She sobered. "But I was wrong to give up on you. Ironic to think that, months and months after I abandoned all thought of you as my childhood hero, my prince did save me after all." Her hand reached up, a finger tracing the line of the shrapnel scars criss-crossing her face. "Not quite in the way I expected, but nevertheless. Thank you."

"You are most welcome." He smiled wryly. "And thank you."

"What for, specifically?"

He shrugged, a grin tugging at his mouth. "Everything."

"How all-encompassing."

"I like to be thorough." He glanced over her shoulder. Savas stood by the cathedral, leaning against one of the statues adorning the doorway, watching them. Hakim grimaced involuntarily. He still felt ill at ease around the representative of the Desert Raiders, but he owed him a definite debt. It was surprisingly easy to force a flippant tone. "Will you excuse me? I'm afraid I have a long list of people to thank tonight."

She smiled and dropped an ironic curtsy, and, chuckling, he moved away and approached the Raider. As he came near, Savas raised a glass in silent toast. The prince knew the Raiders well enough to know it would not be alcohol.

"Well done, Your Highness."

"Really?" he asked wryly, a little relieved. "I was under the impression your people would be rather unimpressed."

The Raider shrugged a single shoulder. "It is much more convenient for us."

"Convenient?"

"A divided authority is useful for no one." Hakim gave him a look of blank puzzlement, but was rewarded with nought but a low chortle. "You are not terribly well educated on our traditions, are you, Your Highness?"

"I was under the impression that I understood the basics," he replied, one eyebrow raised.

"But merely the basics." Savas took a slow sip, watching his monarch over the top of the glass. "Were you to actually examine our articles, you would discover that our allegiance belongs to the one who _retrieved_ the regalia. Not merely the possessor."

Hakim's mind shot back without his bidding to the fateful three days in the desert of al-Awan. With Kestral. But how did the Raiders even –

Savas' smirk deepened. "And divided authorities are so tedious, don't you agree?"

Hakim could not think of a sensible response. Fortunately, he did not need to do so. An arm slipped into his, and a captivating smile looked up at him. "What's this all about?"

"It is a long story, which Prince Ammar would tell better than I." Savas bowed politely. "If you'll excuse me, Your Highness? I have my duties to attend to."

"Of course," Hakim responded, trying to sound commanding and failing utterly. It was hard to behave like an authoritative royal when the entire basis for that authority and power had just been called into question. "Thank you for your assistance."

"My pleasure." Savas bowed again, then turned and melted into the shadows.

Hakim immediately turned his attention to his bride, searching her face. How _had_ he not considered that receiving assistance in retrieving the regalia would dilute his claim? He _was_ a fool.

"What?" Kestral laughed, and suddenly he did too. Today seemed to be the day for shaking his assumptions. Had he ever truly been in control of a single situation in his adult life? And did it really matter?

No. Not really. He bent and kissed her lips, then her cheek. "Never mind."

"Oh no." She eyed him sternly, face inches from his. "Don't ya dare."

"Dare what?"

"Hide stuff from me. I'm not gonna stand for it." She cleared her throat solemnly. "From now on, we communicate _clearly_, m'kay? No more stupid misunderstandings."

"Very well. I shall do my poor best."

"Then 'fess up."

He hesitated. Objectively speaking, it was absolutely fine – even wonderful – that Kestral had as much right to al-Awan in the eyes of the Desert Raiders as he did. Still, it was a _slight_ blow to his pride. "May I explain when I have had time to recover from my embarrassment?"

"Ooookay. I guess. But don't think I'll forget." The sternness vanished, and was replaced with concern. She rubbed his arm. "Princey. Are you okay? I mean, Doruk –"

Hakim winced, then sighed. The betrayal was still raw, and he was not keen on discussing the situation in depth. "I'll recover soon enough." He folded her into his arms. "Jabir is the one who deserves pity. He's taken it much harder than I have."

"Understandably." She rested her head against his chest. "What will happen to him? To Doruk, I mean."

"He will be executed," he answered, quiet and bitter, holding her tighter as she flinched. "What other choice do I have?"

"None, I guess. Trial in Jumajir?"

"Yes."

"So he'll be travelling back on the same ship as us." She made a face. "And so will Fari and the kids. Not really much of a honeymoon."

He echoed her expression. "I will admit I did not have romance in mind when I made the initial travel arrangements." He released her, looking down into her face thoughtfully. "We could go elsewhere, if you like. I can spare a couple of weeks, and I'm sure Her Majesty wouldn't mind us borrowing a ship."

"Not a bad idea." She grinned broadly. "Where shall we go?"

"Where would you _like_ to go?"

"Narlind?"

"Kestral," he replied, tone pained, "we are a few weeks from winter. Please do not make me."

"Oh, all right. Hmm. I've never been to Geth."

"Geth it is." At that, she burst into giggles, and he cocked an eyebrow. "What have I said now?"

"Wisey," she spluttered, "here we are, talking about just popping over to Geth as if it's the easiest thing in the world. Ordinary people don't _do_ that, Wisey."

"But Kestral," he protested. "You are _anything_ but ordinary."

"More shameless flattery?"

"Absolutely."

…

At home, when upset, Saraya would go to the little walled garden outside her chambers in Thela's palace. There she would curl up on the floor between two potted plants and cry, safe in the knowledge that no one would disturb her. Here that was not an option; instead, she'd found herself a spot between two of the cathedral's buttresses, hidden from view of the marketplace and, by extension, the Knights of Darion. Tears filled her eyes and crept onto her cheeks, but she refused to allow herself to sob. She was not such a baby as that.

It had not taken her long to notice Ammar's distant attitude towards her. She had excused it easily – they knew one another so little, objectively speaking, and had not spoken in over a year. He would soon grow warmer, she had had no doubt.

But then she'd spotted him looking at Lady Kestral.

He hadn't seen her, luckily, so she'd been able to escape to her room – and spend the next hour dragging up every memory of their time in Hidun. How _had_ she been so foolish? His regard for Kestral was plainly obvious, but her infatuation and selfishness had blinded her most effectively. But she'd said nothing. After all, it was not as if he was being constrained to wed her. Prince Ammar had made the choice of his own free will. It was none of her business, and, given time, she was sure she could make him happy.

So she'd reminded herself again and again in the last day before the wedding. The last hours. The last moments. Then they'd been standing at the altar, and the priest had asked if any objected to their union – and she had seen hope in his expression. Just a fleeting flicker, but enough. That wasn't what had made her release him, though. It was the look in his eyes afterward. Like a man regarding his own tombstone.

"Saraya?"

Lady Alandra's tone was one of gentle concern. The young princess wasn't sure she deserved pity. "I am quite well. Please let me be."

"At least let me take you back up to the castle."

"And face my father again? No, thank you."

Alandra's voice softened further. "He will not be angry with you for long. He's already agreed to sign the treaty with al-Awan anyway – surely he would not have done that if he were truly mad?"

"He only did that because your Queen pressed him to." Saraya's voice shook. "He does not understand."

Alandra crouched beside her. "You love Ammar."

Saraya nodded, fingers twisting in her skirts, still not looking up.

A comforting arm slipped around her shoulders, and it was all she could do not to break down. Clinging to the last vestiges of her pride, she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dried her eyes. "That's why," she choked out. "He loves her, not me, and I couldn't bear to – to make him unhappy."

Alandra patted her arm. "Good girl," she replied quietly. "I'm proud of you."

Saraya managed a watery smile.

"Ahem."

She looked up, then immediately wished she hadn't. "Your Highness," she said unsteadily.

Prince Ammar cleared his throat a second time, pressing his lips together briefly. "Alandra, may we have a moment?"

Alandra glanced at Saraya for permission, then nodded, stood and withdrew from the sheltered pocket. Saraya got to her feet herself, not very elegantly. "You wish to speak to me?"

"I wish to apologise." He sighed. "I had hoped that I had not hurt you badly, but –"

"I'm fine." As she said it, she became a little more convinced of its truth. "Or I shall be, in not too long a time."

"I am glad." He looked away. "I have been unconscionably horrid to you, Saraya."

She couldn't think what to reply. After a few seconds, he continued. "I think – I hope – that you understand my reasons. But they do not excuse my conduct."

Saraya chewed her lower lip. "You could have spoken to me earlier. If you had simply told me when I arrived that you did not wish to wed me, then I would have freed your from your obligations immediately. There was no need for all of this."

He hugged his chest, regarding her shamefacedly. There was more than a twinge of guilt in the deep, level voice. "I understand that now. I thank you for what you have done for Kestral and myself."

The princess gave a quiet sigh. He would be happy, now; and she still could be. There was time enough. "You are very welcome." She held out her hand, and he took it wordlessly. "I forgive you, Ammar."

…

Thordal took a lingering sip of his mead. He was actually bothering to use a glass tonight, rather than a tankard. _Kestie should feel honoured_, he thought with an inward grin. Not that she'd notice, of course.

There was something odd about other people's weddings, he mused. He'd felt it at Alandra and Marcus' too, though not to this extent. He was happy for them, 'course – delighted. Thrilled. But, in a corner of his mind, there was a creeping, nagging sensation that he'd had trouble putting a finger on. Until now.

Jealousy. He was jealous. Not of Hakim, obviously: he'd never felt even a tad romantic towards Kestie. Just in general. Watching someone _else_ settle down and prepare to raise a family was enough to fill him with envy.

The Viking had never wanted to marry before, not really. There'd been several lasses back in Narlind who would've been more than happy to catch him, but he'd eluded the lot of 'em. Always more to see, always more to do; no time for roots or family. The lifestyle of a bard had suited him just fine. Back then. Before the Knights. Before the war – wars, really. Before Maria.

The lass was standing over the other side of the Marketplace, talking to Hakim. She really did look lovely. Her deep red dress suited her down to the ground, as did the neat, tight bun she'd pulled her hair into. True, he was more used to seeing it framing her face, but he could get used to the formal look quite easily.

Speaking objectively – which was tough for him – she wasn't strictly pretty. Once, maybe, but the Bydgovians and a few kegs of black powder had put paid to that. But still he could never take his eyes off her face. The scars threaded all over her skin, far from rendering her repulsive, gave her expression a character it hadn't possessed before. Each quirk of her brow and twitch of her lips set her entire countenance alive.

She laughed, then, something the Janubian had said clearly tickling her, and he stood, captivated. Nah, she wasn't pretty. She was _beautiful_, the sassy little piece. But that wasn't why he loved her. She'd changed so much over the past years – gone from a crazy power-hungry lass to a genuinely sweet woman. Even if she kept the sweetness buried under a thick layer of dry wit. He liked to think he'd had something to do with that change. He hoped he had.

And she hadn't left him untouched, either. He'd come to feel responsible for her, and that had _definitely_ changed him. He'd needed to be a stable rock for her to lean on, not a shifting traveller, and to his surprise he hadn't minded at all. And then watching her with Kessie, and Hakim, and Aminah ...

On an impulse, he drained his glass, deposited it on the nearby table and marched across towards the conversing pair. Hakim, seeing him approach, nodded to both and moved away.

"Hey, kitten," Thordal greeted Maria casually, draping an arm around her shoulders. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Naturally." She smirked, amber eyes lighting as she looked up into his face. "Are you?"

"'Course. I love a good wedding."

"Strictly speaking, this wasn't a particularly good wedding."

"At least the right people got hitched. Counts for something."

"I suppose. Ammar certainly seems to think so."

"He would!" Thordal laughed deeply. "How's Kestie?"

"Bubbling."

"Brilliant." For a moment, he was uncertain of what to say. Four years earlier, if anyone had told him he'd be standing here now with this particular lady under his arm, he'd have told them to wait until Husran froze over. And yet here he was, contemplating ...

Maria tilted her head. "Viking, is something wrong?"

"Nah." He patted her back. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

"Mighty curious tonight, aren't you, kitten?"

"I hope you're not referencing the proverbial cat."

"Not at all."

"Good." She briefly fiddled with one of the plaited strands hanging down his chest, spinning the metal ring securing the end. "Did I overhear Bubbles insulting the beard earlier?"

"What will you do to her if I say yes?" he teased, chuckling despite himself. She'd gone and developed a protective streak lately; any revenge would probably be extremely creative.

"Oh, not much."

"Just truss her up and hang her from the ceiling, right?"

"Something like that." Eyes twinkled, and a little scar by her mouth crinkled. "Of course, I'd have to contend with the southerner, but I am reasonably confident that if I took him by surprise –"

"Maria," he blurted. "Have you thought about buying the cow?"

She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Jumping the broom. Taking the plunge. Y'know what I mean."

"I'm afraid you've lost me completely."

"Tying the knot? Feeding for life from the same bucket? Singing a duet?"

Her eyes widened, and his heart decided to halt. _"Oh_._"_

"Yeah." He took a long, deep breath, hoping that the look of total shock on her face wasn't a sign she was gonna run. "I love you, honey. Enough that I'm pretty sure I'm not ever gonna stop. Can't say I've spent much time considering settling down before, but it sounds like a pretty good idea. Your thoughts?"

For a long, slightly horrible moment she stared blankly up at him – then laughed softly, her face relaxing into the prettiest smile it had ever worn. "What, you're not going to serenade me?"

"If you like, lassie, but I warn you that the only songs I can think of right now are battle anthems."

"Probably not appropriate, then." She chuckled – _almost_ a giggle – then kissed him lightly. "_Se tu vuoi_, I think."

"Now I'm the confused one. Translation?"

She smirked. "If you like."

"Wonderful!" The Viking beamed broadly. "So does that mean we can get hitched?"

A half-martial, half-teasing light glinted in her eyes. "Oh, no."

He felt his smile lessen as he watched her cautiously. She was impossible to read in these moods. "_Really_ confused now, girlie."

"My meaning is quite simple." Her mouth twitched impishly. "We aren't engaged until you do this _properly._"

"Lass, please don't tell me you expect me to ask your father."

She laughed aloud. "Hardly! I've been of age for quite some time, you know."

Reflecting that an answer in the affirmative would probably be rewarded with a slap, he rapidly cast his mind over daft southern marriage customs. "You want me to sling you over my shoulder and kidnap you, kitten?"

"You wouldn't dare."

"Nah, I wouldn't." Aye, he remembered now. He was supposed to kneel down and present a ring and all that lot. Trouble being he didn't have a –

Ah. Actually, he did. Plenty of 'em. Struggling to repress a rather roguish grin, he let her go and began to fumble with one of the braids in his beard. He freed the metal band fastening it with a minimum of discomfort and cleared his throat.

"You're going to propose to me with _that?_"

"Stopgap solution 'till I get a better one, honey."

"It better be." She lifted her brows, but her eyes were grinning merrily. "It's not even going to fit on my ring finger."

"Then it can go on your pinky," he replied cheerfully, and dropped to one knee. "Maria del Cordillera –" – and he rolled the 'R's dramatically – "– my darling girlie girl, d'you care to be my lawfully wedded wife?"

Maria chuckled pleasantly, offering her left hand ceremoniously, her entire face beautifully alive. "I do."

He slipped it onto her little finger, his smile growing wider by the second. "Now, then, lassie –"

"CRIMMY!" Kestie gave a squeal of delight and bolted towards them, practically knocking Maria over with a violent hug. "You _didn't_!"

"We did." Maria freed herself from Kes' grasp with an expressive look at Thordal, and he chortled.

"Aye, we did, Kessie. We're – what d'you call it?"

"Engaged," Maria said dryly, nodding to Marcus and Alandra as they approached, both grinning. "May I hug my fiancé now?"

"Oh, go on." Kestral shoved her towards Thordal, and he caught her successfully, his chuckles transforming into outright laughter. Half the marketplace was looking at them now, and he didn't care the tiniest bit.

Life was good.

…

"What _is_ going on over there?" Saraya asked as she and Hakim rounded the corner of the cathedral, pointing towards a throng rapidly gathering at the other side of the market square.

Hakim blinked. Thordal and Maria appeared to be at the centre of the commotion. He shrugged and quickened his step towards the group.

"Excuse me," a voice said politely.

He stopped automatically, turned – and staggered as a fist slammed briskly into his face.

"How dare you!" Now Hakim recognised the voice, even as his hand flew to his nose.

"Hello, Milo," he said thickly, glancing apologetically at Saraya, who was retreating rapidly. "I can explain."

"Can you now?" The young bandit planted his hands on his hips, fixing Hakim with an accusing glare not unlike Kestral's. "Can you explain why you've gone and broken my sister's heart? What excuse can you _possibly –_"

"Hawker!"

Hakim started to sigh in relief, then stopped and winced. Kestral, charging across the square to the rescue. "Milo, you – you _ninny_!" She clapped a hand over her mouth, laughing through her fingers.

"Ninny?" the boy repeated, looking distinctly affronted. "For crying out loud, Kessie, I'm trying to defend you here!"

"He married _me_, you dolt! Keep up!"

Milo stared at his sister blankly for a moment. "Wait. What?"

"He was gonna marry Saraya," she said slowly and carefully, as if spelling it out for a child. "But then stuff happened, and then he married me. Got it?"

"Stuff happened. Got it." Milo rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh. Sorry, Sandpit."

"You better be." Kestral turned to Hakim with a half-giggle. "Wisey, are you okay?"

"I think my nose is bleeding," he replied with as much dignity as he could muster.

She promptly pulled a handkerchief from a hidden pocket in her skirts. "It is. Here."

He accepted it gratefully and held it to his maltreated organ, watching with amusement as Kestral rounded on her younger brother again. "Seriously, Hawker, haven't ya learned to ask questions before punching people yet?"

"Hey, I – waitasecond." Milo's eyes narrowed. "Are you telling me that you've gone and gotten married _without _me?"

"Uh. Yes?"

"I wanted to give you away!"

"Tough. Thordie did."

"Can I punch _him_?"

Kestral snorted. "I'd like to see you try."

Hakim cleared his throat, removing the handkerchief from his nose. The uncomfortable trickle of blood had stopped, he thought, though it was hard to tell when his whole head was now throbbing. "If I can interrupt this touching reunion? I need to wash my face."

Milo jerked a finger towards the fountain. "There."

"Cut it out, Hawker," Kestral replied genially, slipping her arm into Hakim's. "C'mon, Wise Boy."

…

Maria watched in amusement from across the marketplace as Kestral towed her battered and bleeding husband off towards the castle. It was a picture she'd seen before, albeit in rather different circumstances. Perhaps she'd see it again.

Was it three years since that day in Tijah? How things had changed. She looked over her shoulder and chuckled softly as she watched Marcus fussing over Alandra. The poor boy was doing his best to convince her to wear a shawl. She was having none of it. Three years ago, they'd been dancing around one another, both far too shy to even look one another directly in the eye. And now, today, they were wearing wedding rings and Alandra was looking distinctly thick around the middle. It was rather adorable. And, of course, Ammar and Kestral were even more fun to watch. The Janubian was her oldest friend, and the gypsy her dearest; she couldn't have planned it better herself. But she'd miss them.

"Okay there, kitten?" Thordal hugged her from behind and kissed her atop her head.

Maria leaned back against him with a sigh, smiling in what was probably a dreadfully sentimental fashion, too contented to talk. Yes, she was losing her friends, but she was gaining much as well. Three years ago, the idea of marrying the Viking holding her in his arms would have been madness to her. Now it was as perfect as she could imagine an idea being.

"Thordal?" she murmured.

"Hullo, sweetheart."

"I love you."

He laughed quietly, holding her a little tighter. "I love you too."

And then, as if by magic, the sky exploded. Rocket after rocket blitzed into the sky, bursting into a dozen different sparkling colours. A smug smile crept onto her face as she surveyed her handiwork.

So much had changed, in ways she never could possibly have imagined. She'd changed too. Crimson Sabatt had yielded to the only person she ever could, and Maria had taken her place. And she was determined, clichéd though the sentiment may be, to live happily ever after.

"Lass?" Thordal sounded almost anxious. "Are you gonna tell the panicking crowds that the sky isn't falling?"

She smirked. "In a minute."


End file.
